


Asymmetrical

by Cottonstones



Category: JJAMZ, Panic At The Disco, Phantom Planet, The Like, Young Veins
Genre: Body Dysphoria, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 62,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cottonstones/pseuds/Cottonstones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Young Veins get into an accident on tour, Ryan Ross's life is turned upside down. He loses his arm, rendering him unable to make music, and has to learn to live again. He strives to find a purpose in his new life, to find a way to keep going, with people he never thought would be there for him when the worst happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asymmetrical

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Wave One of [Bandom Big Bang](http://bandombigbang.livejournal.com/) 2011\. The art for this fic can be found [here](http://pinkichan.livejournal.com/39204.html) and the mix for this fic can be found [here](http://pinkichan.livejournal.com/39485.html).

Ryan wakes up just as his body propels forward. His eyes flicker open right as the cold, rough fabric of his seat belt bites into his skin, keeping him from going flying out the windshield of the tour van. Ryan’s in a haze, a far cry from a mere hour ago when he had drifted off to the sound of Jon and Will’s conversation about the best route to take to get to the next venue. Ryan registers the harsh squeal of the van tires against the rain-slick stretch of freeway, taking in Will’s growled swear, and he has just enough time to look ahead, out the water-flecked glass of the windshield, to see the golden, gleaming pair of headlights coming right at them.

The next time Ryan is conscious, he’s upside down, trapped in his seat by the belt holding him in place. Ryan’s vision blurs as he tries to gather what just happened. Crash. They obviously got in a car accident. There’s a wet, sticky heat running down the length of Ryan’s face, stinging his eyes. He figures that it’s blood and he doesn’t know whether or not he’s hoping that it’s his own or someone else’s.

Ryan remembers Will and the others. He blinks through the pain and tries to gather his bearings. He can just make out the shattered windshield from the soft, fluorescent-green glow of the radio’s clock. His mind is fuzzy and he can’t hear anything. He hurts all over, his chest tight. Ryan remembers from somewhere in the back of his mind a random scrap of information he gleaned from some medical show, just a snippet in the episode that he had happened to flip by about how a woman’s ribs had been busted by a seatbelt. He ignores the information for the moment. He needs to try and keep a clear head despite his world literally being turned upside down.

“Will?” Ryan tries to say. His voice doesn’t come to him at first. There’s no sound, just a dry wheeze, but Ryan tries again. “Will? Jon? Guys?” He strains to hear, and past the buzzing filling his mind, he thinks that he hears groaning or a painful sob. There’s no real response. Ryan wipes the blood away from his eyes and tries to see around in the near-darkness of the van. He thinks that he sees the shape of a person in the driver’s seat, hanging upside down, caught with the belt the same way Ryan is. It has to be Will, since he was driving. “Will?” Ryan tries again.

There’s a sudden glow coming from Ryan’s left. He turns his head to follow the light source. Through the passenger side window, Ryan can see a grassy bank and a cell phone – maybe its Ryan’s or maybe it flew from an open window in the van. If Ryan can get to the phone, he can call for help. He still doesn’t know where the others are. One of them is hurt if their pained groan is anything to go by, but he doesn’t know if they’re conscious, or if all of them are even alive.

It’s that thought, that one of his bandmates might be dying right here and now on the side of a highway, that urges Ryan on. He refuses to lose anyone else; no more bandmates will slip from him. Ryan blindly gropes for the buckle to his seatbelt and hits the button. He’s released from its hold and slams painfully into the roof of the van. All the air in Ryan’s body whooshes out in a painful gasp, his eyes burn with blood and he wipes it away again in vain, struggling to reach the window. The window is broken out, jagged glass clinging razor-sharp to the rubber that surrounds the window’s frame. There are shards of broken glass cracking under Ryan’s knees as he crawls far enough to reach the window. His whole body aches, his hands are sticky, and there are thick tears running down his cheeks, his body’s attempt to wash the blood away, but finally, he manages to get close enough.

Ryan lies flat on his belly and navigates his arm carefully through the broken window. Dangerous thoughts flicker through his mind as he scrabbles for the phone. He’s heard about crashes where gas tanks ignite and explode, especially concerning larger vehicles. What if their van explodes? Ryan shakes his head and closes his fingers around the cell phone.

He’s about to pull his arm back and call for salvation, but before he can, there are lights building up bright and blinding, coming up much too fast for Ryan to believe that it’s help. Ryan can’t move fast enough, can’t scream, and can’t do anything but listen as a second car skids against the wet road – maybe trying to avoid the debris of the accident, maybe to avoid their trailer … Ryan doesn’t know. He thinks the car fishtails right into their trailer. He doesn’t even allow himself a moment to mourn their gear. Instruments can be replaced, people cannot.

The crunch of metal rings sharp around the still wood-lined high way and the trailer jerks from the impact of the car, sending it smashing into the side of the van. The van shudders and there’s a loud groaning noise and then everything gets worse. The van seems to have lost whatever precarious balance had been keeping it from flipping and begins to move, and Ryan closes his eyes tight, tries in vain to hold on against the momentum, and he loses consciousness amidst the unbearable pain.

***

_Denver, CO (JusticeNewsFlash.com)  
Late last night, nine people were injured in a multiple car crash on Interstate 70 near Denver. Authorities have reported that all nine people were taken to the local hospital by emergency medical services (EMS) personnel. Three of the victims are in critical condition. Sources state that the band the Young Veins, fronted by ex-pop sensation Panic at the Disco members Ryan Ross and Jon Walker, along with their bandmates, were involved in the accident, but this information has yet to be confirmed. Police say that weather played a factor. Check our website to stay updated on the developments of this story._

***

Ryan's been in the hospital for a little over a month now. He's been trapped in the same tiny hospital bed for over a month. The bed is too small and the heels of his feet dangle off the end of the lumpy mattress. Ryan pushes himself up against the pillows, adjusting his weight, and Spencer lowers the magazine that he had been reading, his eyes automatically filled with concern, a look Ryan has become far too familiar with.

"You okay, Ry?" Spencer asks. Ryan shifts a little. There's an ache running up and down the line of his spine. By extension, Spencer has also been in the hospital for a month. They had barely spoken in the months leading up to the accident, but Spencer still came as soon as the hospital called. Ryan hadn’t had the time to change his emergency contact. Spencer had come to the hospital and never really left. He goes home to sleep when visiting hours are over, and to shower and eat, but besides that, he’s been spending all of the possible hours he can in Ryan's room, seated in the uncomfortable chair in the corner.

"Just – maybe hand me my water?" Ryan asks. Spencer nods slightly before he stands up. Ryan curls his fingers around the sweating glass of water, the ice clinking against the sides. Spencer moves the straw in front of Ryan's mouth. Ryan hates feeling like he can't do anything for himself, helpless and worthless. Spencer moves away, taking the glass with him, and he returns to his station, the wooden, flimsily-padded chair.

Spencer is watching Ryan carefully, his eyes sweeping over the thin rail of Ryan's body. The fingers of Ryan's left hand twist into the itchy, light-blue blanket that's covering him up to the waist.

"Do you need anything else?" Spencer asks. Ryan shakes his head, his dirty curls falling into his eyes and tickling at the back of his neck. He hasn't taken a proper shower in weeks, living instead on sponge baths or warm washcloths or baby wipes. Ryan has to push himself down the length of the bed to even get his head rested on the rough pillows, his heels hanging off of the edge of the bed once again. Ryan rolls onto his side, his back to Spencer, facing the salmon pink wall. He stares at the strange pattern on the wall until his eyes hurt. He can feel Spencer's warm gaze on his back as the silence overtakes the two of them once again.

It hasn’t been strange. That might be because now no one is talking about music. The two of them have been stripped of their bands and reverted back to teens; they’re just Ryan and Spencer. Even if things had been bad, Ryan still trusts Spencer; even if it’s annoying to have him around constantly, Ryan is still glad that he’s here. 

***

Jon shows up at the hospital while Ryan feigns sleep. Spencer's eyes are closed and his head is lolling back slightly, but when Jon walks in the room, Spencer’s eyes snap open and he sits up straight. He relaxes when he sees that it's Jon in the room and not a doctor, a nurse, or Ryan's physical therapist. Jon raises his hands up in something that could be considered a mix between a wave and a sign that Spencer takes to mean, 'Sorry for waking you.' Spencer presses the heel of his hands to his eyes and shakes his head. Ryan can feel Jon’s eyes scanning his lithe form stretched out in the hospital bed.

Ryan continues to fake sleep, most of the time he isn’t up for talking or visitors so he stays curled in the bed, his eyes shut but his ears pricked."How long has he been asleep?" Jon whispers as he moves across the room, setting the plastic bag full of things that he’s brought for Ryan on the floor. Spencer shrugs.

"About an hour and a half. What are you doing back up here?" Spencer asks. His voice is thin and he sounds pretty tired, though he looks it more than he sounds.

"Brendon and I have decided that your shift at the hospital is over. You need to go back to Bren's place and relax, Nurse Smith," Jon teases. Spencer doesn't even crack a smile. The room is stuffy and has that strong chemical smell combined with the spicy scent of the body spray that Spencer's been using in place of a shower. Spencer shakes his head, dirty bangs slipping into his eyes.

"I can't. He needs me," Spencer tells Jon. Jon scratches at the back of his neck.

"Spence, you need real sleep in a real bed and food that isn't served in a cafeteria. Brendon even offered to cook you something," Jon says. Spencer chews on his bottom lip and glances at Ryan's sleeping form, Jon's gaze following. Ryan knows why Jon and Spencer worry. Ever since the accident, he just doesn't talk anymore. Ryan’s sure Jon can count the number of times that he's heard Ryan's voice in a month and a half on one hand. When Ryan does talk, it's usually only to Spencer, and even then, it isn't more than a few fragmented sentences.

"I don't know, Jon," Spencer sighs, and he sounds young to Ryan’s ears. He sounds his age – and really, they're all still too young for this, but Jon's the oldest and apparently he's not afraid of sitting in silence with Ryan.

"He'll be fine. I'll keep him safe,” Ryan hears Jon say and he recalls a similar conversation that he knows Jon and Spencer had had back when Panic had decided to split. Back then, he had promised that he'd keep Ryan out of trouble. Neither of them mentions that conversation now. Ryan figures that Spencer must finally relent because he hears Spencer stand and stretch, his skin losing the warm, brown tan that it had when Ryan was first admitted to the hospital because he no longer spends a good portion of his time surfing and recording music with Brendon.

"Fine, yeah, but tell him that I won't be gone long and call me if he wants you to," Spencer says. Ryan cringes, they sound like they’re talking about a child and not someone who’s actually older than Spencer. Ryan thinks he can feel Spencer throw a glance back at Ryan's form as he slips from the room. Jon stands awkwardly in the middle of the room.

***

Jon is messing around with his cell phone when Ryan rolls over onto his back, his brown eyes cracking open, narrowed against the constantly-humming florescent hospital lights. Ryan blinks at him a few times and arches an eyebrow. Jon tries out a small smile.

"Spence was in desperate need of a shower," Jon tells him. Ryan doesn't say anything; he doesn’t bother to tell Jon that he was awake the whole time and heard everything. He just turns his gaze up to the white ceiling. "I, ah … I brought you some stuff," Jon tells Ryan. He grabs up the plastic bag and hauls it on to his lap. Ryan turns his head to watch Jon. "I brought some checkers. I had Brendon teach me and I figured that I could teach you if you wanted?"

Ryan gives a half-shrug. "The fans sent some more cards … some art and stuff. Do you want to see?" Jon tries. This is where he and Spencer are different. Spencer doesn't try to break the silence that weaves itself around Ryan, enveloping him and hardening over him like a thick shell. Jon, on the other hand, tries to get them talking because he knows that before they talked, and they laughed, and they were close. Brendon doesn't do well here because he's never good with silence and he gets bored easy. Combine that with Brendon's paranoia that he's going to somehow piss Ryan off and, well, it winds up being Spencer and Jon up here a lot.

Ryan clears his throat and Jon looks hopeful like he’s thinking ‘Finally, Ryan finally wants to talk to me’ before Ryan reaches for the tall glass of ice water sitting beside the bed instead. Ryan's long, nimble fingers tremble and Jon recognizes what that means. He stands uneasily.

"You, um ... want me to get that, Ryan?"

Ryan rolls his eyes and makes to grab the cup on his own. His left arm jerks and he ends up knocking the cup over with the side of his palm instead of picking it up. Water pools on the plywood tray that the cup had been sitting on. Ryan pulls back like he's been burned and Jon grabs up a towel from the little stack of them sitting next to the sink in the room. Ryan's eyes are heavy, and he turns them down to look at his offending traitorous hand.

"You could've asked, Ryan. I'm here to help," Jon says casually as he soaks up the cool water, the squares of ice sliding and melting against the top of the tray. Ryan's fingers tighten into the fabric of the blanket.

"I don't want help." Ryan's voice is rough to Ryan’s own ears. It sounds foreign and empty, like Ryan is a stranger, someone that he's never met before. There's a knock on the door before more can be said- an effort to be polite made by the staff. The door opens and one of Ryan's nurses comes into the room. Her red hair is pulled up into a ponytail and she's wearing bright pink scrubs, pushing in a cart full of supplies. Ryan crinkles his nose in her direction. Ryan can’t remember her name and he doesn’t think Jon knows it either. Spencer knows all of Ryan's team's names by heart.

"Good evening, Ryan. How are you?" the nurse asks. Ryan doesn't say anything. His head is ducked down, and with all of those curls, he looks akin to a little boy whose being scolded. When Ryan doesn't answer, the nurse turns to Jon.

"Um ... he slept a bit. He had, ah ... his arm jerked," Jon tells her. Ryan throws Jon a scathing look. He doesn’t need to tell the staff every move he makes. The nurse just nods though and slides a pen out of the front pocket of her scrub shirt. She picks up Ryan's chart from the cart and flips it open before she scribbles something down.

"Well, Mr. Ross, you're due for your dressings to be changed," the nurse says. Ryan's scowl deepens. On average he hates having his dressings changed but with Jon here watching it’s even worse."It has to be done or you'll get an infection," she adds, as if she's hearing all the words Ryan isn't saying. Ryan sighs, gives in because he can’t fight it and Jon reclaims his uncomfortable seat in the corner. The nurse tugs on a pair of latex gloves before she gathers up the soft, white roll of gauze, the anti-septic gel, and the bandages. Jon's never really been around to watch Ryan's bandages being changed and Ryan even wants him to see.

"Should I ... do you want me to leave the room, Ryan?" Jon asks. Ryan's head whips up fast, his eyes widened slightly. He shakes his head and his curls poke him in the eyes. Ryan lifts his previous traitor of a left hand and brushes away his hair. He doesn’t want Jon to go, if there’s something he hates more than dealing with the staff it’s dealing with the staff on his own. Jon settles back into the seat as the nurse slides up to Ryan's side. She tugs the blanket down to Ryan's hips, the pale, papery gown washing out his skin. The nurse gets her arms around his neck and undoes the tie that keeps the gown on Ryan. She lowers it carefully over Ryan's right shoulder. He slowly becomes exposed to Jon, his pale side, and Ryan is sure Jon can count the sharp line of his ribs poking out slightly against his skin.

Ryan wants Jon wants to focus on the sharp angles of Ryan's body or the way that his hair is steadily getting longer. He doesn't want Jon to stare at where the nurse is using scissors to cut open the bandages and gauze that are wrapped around Ryan's right shoulder and down what's left of his arm. She gets Ryan's arm free, and even though Jon doesn't want to stare, he can't bring himself to look away.

Jon watches the nurse peel away the bandages that conceal the aftermath of the car accident ... the car accident that Ryan hasn’t talked about. Jon remembers the accident, though; and even though Ryan won’t talk about it, Jon will and Ryan’s heard enough to gather up what happened. Jon had been the one to tell Spencer and Brendon what he remembered of the accident. They had been driving to the next venue, their Denver date. It was raining out, hard sheets drizzling down on them. Jon says he had been asleep when it all took place, but he’s also talked to Andy and the Nicks and Will, and he’s pieced together enough to have a cohesive account of the accident.

Will had lost control of the van. It wasn’t his fault, not really, but Will has yet to forgive himself. He resigned as their tour manager shortly after the accident. Jon still talks to him and Ryan sends the occasional text, telling Will to come see him when he’s in town with fun. – his current gig “Only until the Young Veins come off hiatus.” Andy and the Nicks, along with Will, all walked away from the crash mostly uninjured or at least nowhere near as badly as Ryan had been.

Andy was awake during the crash. He was the only one besides Will who was conscious during it. Andy’s leg was broken in the crash, crushed by a suitcase that had flown up from the back of the van. Andy still can’t walk, temporarily confined to a wheelchair or a set of crutches. Jon says he hasn’t seen him in weeks because he hasn’t been to Chicago lately. He’s been staying with Brendon and Spencer, sleeping in Brendon’s second guest bedroom. A broken leg wasn’t the only injury Andy walked away from the crash with, though. He was shaken mentally and it took him nearly a month to feel safe driving in a car, let alone going anywhere close to a highway.

Nick Murray gained a small gash on his hand and a few broken fingers. He comes to visit Ryan a lot. He’ll bring Ryan his mail and tell Ryan about some records he found. He spins yarns about breaking Ryan out of the hospital late at night and taking him out for drinks. They both know that it’ll never happen, but Nick tells him the tales all the same.

Most of the time, when Ryan is asleep or just doesn’t feel like talking while Jon is visiting the hospital Jon says he’ll think of the crash. He’s told the story of how he had been asleep that night, sharing a bench with Andy. He’s said how everything happened so fast that for the first two weeks after the accident, the weeks that Jon spent in the hospital, Jon didn’t even know what had happened. He had to run through the scenario in his mind over and over again until it all made sense. Jon had woken up at the first impact. The van had skidded into oncoming traffic and flipped as a result of the hit. Jon says he doesn’t remember when the van flipped. He says he thinks that he must’ve hit his head against the roof or the hard plastic of the interior or the millions of other objects lobbing around the van.

He says he remembers waking up briefly when the van was tilted on its side. His vision blurred and his head rung – the beginnings of a concussion, the doctors had decided when Jon spent those two weeks in the hospital. The next time that Jon had awoke, the van was upright once again and he says he could hear the blaring of sirens and White shaking him, asking him if he was alright.

Jon says he still shudders at the memories. He says he had been so afraid that night. The paramedics had cut the crumpled van doors open, helped them out. Jon says he remembers seeing the van as they left the scene, how the vehicle they had been traveling in now resembled a tin soda can that had been squeezed tight. Jon's said head swam in a blur of lights and noises and he was disoriented so he never saw what Ryan looked like before the paramedics loaded him up. Andy had later informed Jon that he did see Ryan, and that the sight wasn’t a pretty one.

Ryan’s arm had been out the window when the van was hit for the second time and turned upright. His right arm was crushed when the van rolled, nearly torn completely from his body. The doctors had done all that they could, but Ryan’s arm was unsalvageable. An infection had set in, leaving no other choice but to remove it. Ryan's arm had to be amputated from the elbow down.

The nurse is cleaning the hard, angry, scarred skin of Ryan’s appendage. Ryan is biting his lip and staring down at the blanket, but after a moment, he looks up and meets Jon's eyes. Ryan’s afraid he’ll turn away from this side of Ryan that he’ll cower in disgust. Jon smiles though, small and comforting, like he’s hoping to ease Ryan’s fears. It doesn’t, but it helps. 

***

“You’re scheduled for therapy today, Mr. Ross,” Carly, Ryan’s usual nurse, tells him. She’s finishing up re-applying the dressing on Ryan’s ruined arm. He hates that she calls him Mr. Ross, but he doesn’t fight it. It took the staff three weeks to stop calling him George, and in the end, it was stopped only because of Spencer, who had to complain enough times about it happening.

“I don’t feel like therapy today,” Ryan tells her quietly. He hates it most of the time. How many times is he expected to sit there and move the same plastic cup back and forth or put together the same thick, wooden puzzle pieces?

Carly clucks. “You need to work on your dexterity,” she says. She flips through his chart again. “Your friend mentioned that you had an incident earlier.” Ryan looks up and narrows his eyes at Jon. Spencer wouldn’t have ratted him out, but he would also make Ryan go to physical therapy. Jon bites his lip and ducks his head. He has the grace to look sheepish about his slip-up.

“His arm jerked. That’s a nerve problem, isn’t it?” Jon asks, trying to save Ryan at the last minute.

Carly looks back over her shoulder at Jon. “It might be, but most likely, it’s Mr. Ross’ hand weakening from skipping his therapy sessions. You’ve missed the last three. You’ll never get better at this rate, Mr. Ross.”

Ryan knows that Nurse Carly means well, but he can’t bite back his words. “I’ll never be better. I’m missing an arm. There’s no going back from that,” Ryan snaps. Carly must be used to patients yelling at her, or maybe she’s just used to Ryan, because his words don’t even phase her. Ryan’s mood hasn’t exactly been the greatest this last month and a half, but he has the right to be angry. Anyone would be angry. His band was in an accident and Ryan lost most of his arm. He’s a musician and he lost his arm.

“Therapy,” Carly says. “You should go.”

“Fine,” Ryan hisses.

Carly tells Ryan that one of the attendants will be back within the hour to take him to the Therapy Center, a large space, sort of like a class room or a gymnasium, that’s located on the third floor of the hospital. Ryan typically sits at a long, white table, his daily activities spread out before him. His physical therapist is a man named Albert. Ryan doesn’t know for sure, since he’s never asked, but he’s sure that Albert is around the same age as him. Sometimes – and it isn’t often, because one wrong thought leads to a million dark thoughts that set Ryan on edge – he wonders if Albert knows who Ryan is … who Ryan was.

Carly leaves the room and Ryan flexes his hand, testing his strength.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan hears Jon say. Ryan looks up and Jon is frowning at the floor. “I shouldn’t have said anything to her.” Ryan shrugs. He can still do that and he considers that a bittersweet victory.

“They’d make me go anyway. It doesn’t really matter what you or I say.”

“I think,” Jon starts. Ryan watches him. He’s taken to doing that a lot since his stay in the hospital. He gets bored, restless, tired of watching the tiny TV in his room, watching people instead. He likes to see how they react to him in particular. Spencer is tight and cautious, ready to spring into action at Ryan’s word. Brendon – on the rare occasion that he had come to see Ryan – had been nervous, fidgeting, but Ryan didn’t blame him. If the tables had been turned … well, he can’t say that he’d like to sit up here and watch Brendon struggle. Jon is calm, though, like he always is. That didn’t change post-accident. Jon doesn’t mind just sitting and existing alongside Ryan. “I think that this is the most that you’ve said to me in weeks,” Jon finishes. It takes Ryan a dazed moment to remember what they were talking about.

“It wasn’t anything personal. I wasn’t upset at you.” It’s the truth. There’s just so much to say. Ryan can’t even bring himself to broach the subjects. It’s all a line of association. Jon and Ryan are in a band, you need two hands to play a guitar, and you need to be able to write lyrics. Ryan doesn’t like to think about music, not now, not for a while.

Jon smiles a real smile at him, not something soft and watery and says, “I know.”

Ryan spends the next hour listening to Jon read the fans’ letters aloud. Ryan’s pretty sure that Jon omits certain parts – maybe questions about the music, maybe insults, Ryan isn’t sure – but it’s still nice to hear the positive things; it’s always nice to have support. They’d managed to keep the accident under wraps for the first two weeks. Will took to Twitter and told the fans that unfortunately the rest of the tour they were embarking upon would be cancelled. At the time, he had blamed a family emergency. Ryan’s stomach twists when he thinks of those first two weeks. Ryan wasn’t conscious for them, in a medical-induced coma, and Ryan knows now that Will was waiting to announce anything truthful to the media until they knew whether or not Ryan would live.

Once Ryan awoke – minus an arm – they had allowed Will and the label to make an announcement about what had really happened in that car accident in Colorado. Ryan caught the story on the television during one of the few occasions that he’d been flipping around MTV. The reactions were varied. The accident did little to discourage the band’s haters, and more than once on the curious occasions where he’d been allowed his iPhone – he can manage to work it one-handed – he’s witnessed the tweets, the people who say that this is his punishment for leaving Panic. Mostly, though, there were well wishes and support. Old grudges tend to be left behind when you nearly die.

In the middle of one of the letters, a nurse comes in to take Ryan. She’s no one Ryan recognizes, but he’s never been good at placing names with faces. Jon folds the letter and smiles at her before she sets her sights on Ryan. Ryan makes no attempt to be as kind as Jon.

The nurse wants to take Ryan in a wheelchair, but he declines. He lost his arm, not his leg; he can walk just fine. The doctors had told him after the accident that the loss of an arm could result in his body becoming confused, his legs jerking and stumbling out from underneath him. He can walk – he does so occasionally to the bathroom and back, and sometimes, late at night, when most patients are asleep and there are no nosey visitors, he’ll walk a loop around his floor of the hospital. Sometimes, he’ll lose his balance, feel oddly weighted on his left side, but it’s no hindrance. He refuses to let another limb crap out on him.

The nurse ties Ryan’s papery gown up along the back. He’s wearing boxers under his gown. He’s been here long enough that he thinks that he’s earned some kind of better outfit, but there’s nothing else. A hospital isn’t meant to be a place of comfort; this isn’t Ryan’s second home.

“He’ll be gone for an hour and a half,” the nurse tells Jon. “In case you wanted to get some sleep or a shower or head home for a while.”

“I’ll probably go make some phone calls. Is that okay, Ryan? I won’t leave.”

Ryan nods. He doesn’t mean to grow silent around the staff, but he’s never enjoyed hospitals, having encountered them one too many times in his life. He remembers coming here with his father, when Spencer had the severe case of chicken pox and gave them to Ryan, and the accident now. He feels displaced from the regular world, separated on his own personal planet. He’s used to being odd or different than most, but this isn’t something that he can hide; he can’t disguise it, because it’s obvious just from one glance that Ryan is different than everyone else now.

Ryan leaves Jon and the safe bubble of his hospital room to follow the nurse to the elevators. She asks him how he’s feeling, if he’s eaten today. Ryan answers her questions as simply as he can. He doesn’t want to discuss what happened. It’s not as if he can really pretend, because he can’t. His body is in a constant foreign state: it’s his, but at the same time, not his own.

The hospital itself is comforting; everything is clean and white and permeates a feeling of safety. What sets Ryan on edge are the people milling around everywhere – café workers from downstairs on their breaks, people visiting their family members, flower deliverers. There are a million reasons for a person to be in a hospital and Ryan lives in fear that one of these people will recognize him.

He’s never been comfortable with his body – too thin, too tall, too gangly, too ugly – but now he can’t even stand to look at himself, at the way that he’s marred permanently with an uneven, empty space. He doesn’t want to be known or seen. He doesn’t want mirrors or photos. He wants to feel complete, the way that everyone else does.

The third floor Therapy Center is sparsely filled. Ryan’s been down here a few times when there have been whole groups of people, meetings being held on mats on the floor or little circles of metal chairs. There are different stations for different people. The work tables where Ryan will be sitting are pushed back near the far wall on the right side of the room. There are metal bars that extend horizontally from wall to wall; they always remind Ryan of Keltie and her dance studios. There are tables for patients to lie on and be worked over, as well as tumble mats and trampolines and stations that have metal rings hanging down like monkey bars.

Ryan only ever sits at the table with Albert, continuously putting together the same three puzzles, each a varying difficulty, or writing his name over and over again, or picking up and setting down small objects: a ball, a cup, plastic silverware from the cafeteria.

The nurse leads Ryan to the table and helps him sit. That’s the thing about hospitals: it can all be too much. Ryan is missing an arm, yes, but he can sit in a chair. His point is weakened when he sits too swiftly and has to scrabble at the nurse’s arm to maintain his balance when, prior to the accident, he could’ve just rested his right arm against the metal seat of the chair.

Albert comes in a few moments later in his green scrubs, smiling at Ryan. “Well, we haven’t seen you in a long while, Mr. Ross.”

“Ryan,” Ryan tries.

Albert nods. “Oh, right! See, if you came more often, I would’ve remembered that.”

The nurse flips open Ryan’s chart, scanning it before telling Albert of the incident that Ryan had earlier. Albert hums and opens his own folder of information, jotting something down.

“We’ll have to work on holding and moving today, then.”

Ryan doesn’t argue. He’d like to get stronger, he would; the repetition kills him, though. The nurse leaves while Albert goes to the double glass doors of the storage closet and brings back a plastic tub of Ryan’s therapy supplies. Albert sets out the cup, the ball, a toy cell phone, and silverware. Ryan watches Albert almost in vain. He wonders if Albert, because of the work he does, really appreciates his functioning limbs. At the end of the day, when Albert goes home and eats dinner and goes to bed, does he realize just how lucky he is to be fully functioning?

“Have you been feeling a loss of strength in your hand, Ryan?” Albert asks. Ryan remembers when people used to have to distinguish which hand they were asking a question about. Now there is no question, only one choice.

Ryan flexes his hand. It aches, his long fingers twitching. Ryan can akin the feeling in his left hand to those exercises people sometimes do where they have to squeeze the rubber ball and, no matter how hard you squeeze, you never feel as strong with that hand as the hand that you favor.

“Yeah, maybe a bit, if it was ever there at all.”

“Okay, well, it’ll be easy today. Just move the items from the right side of the table to the left and repeat, and if you feel up to it, maybe we’ll jump to something else.”

Ryan nods and begins his therapy. It’s nothing that should be hard. Ryan remembers how easy it all used to be. He remembers playing games with Spencer when they were kids, pretending to have lost their sight and giggling as they kept their eyes closed and bumped into the walls, tables, and each other. Ryan remembers playing the variation of that game where you were dared to go the whole day pretending that you didn’t have a hand or a foot, an arm or a leg. Ryan remembers that he could never last more than ten minutes playing those games.

Albert leaves Ryan after ten minutes so that he can check on the other patients that he has down here. Ryan watches his hand as he closes it around the hard, plastic cup. It feels awkward and there are slight tremors running through Ryan’s hand and wrist. He shakes like it’s a huge strain. He hates this. He hates therapy and coming down here and facing just how weak he is now, how incapable he is of caring for himself. Ryan manages to move the cup, but then he takes a small break.

He stretches his arm out in front of him, long and lonely. He looks even paler under the florescent lights, even thinner since his stay in the hospital. Ryan’s eyes take in the dark smattering of ink along his wrist, the words still embedded in his skin. Thin as a dime. The companion to the words was lost along with Ryan’s arm. When he had gotten the tattoos done, nearly everyone had reminded him of how it would be permanent, how he would have the words forever, so he’d better like them a hell of a lot. Ryan knows now that nothing is ever permanent.

Ryan spends his hour and a half in therapy. Albert is pleased at the end of their session, but Ryan is tired and his hand and arm aches. The same nurse that had accompanied Ryan downstairs comes back to reclaim him and escort him back to his room once his session is over. Albert had passed on a copy of Ryan’s progress to the nurse. Sometimes, that’s all Ryan feels like: a case, scraps of information passed from one person to the next.

Jon is waiting for Ryan in his room, already seated back in his chair. He looks eager, a little like a parent who’s excited to know how their child did on a test. The nurse settles Ryan back on his bed and covers his lap with the rough blanket. The nurse opens the folder and scans the information Albert had passed on.

“Dr. Deen had good things to say about your sessions today,” the nurse says with a smile. In the corner of the room, Ryan can see Jon's face light up. Ryan wishes he could have the sort of enthusiasm that Jon has about this whole situation. “Dr. Harken will want to talk to you today,” she tells him. Ryan nods to show he’s listening. Dr. Harken is Ryan’s main doctor, though he wasn’t the one who performed the amputation on Ryan’s arm – that was a doctor that Ryan never met while in the hospital in Colorado. Ryan doesn’t see him much. Dr. Harken would rather use the nurses to pass on any information Ryan might need. The nurse leaves shortly after that, moving on to other patients with their folders, their scraps of information.

“I’m glad therapy went okay,” Jon says once the nurse is gone. Ryan makes a small noise of acknowledgement.

“It’s not too hard. It’s tiring. I don’t sleep well here.”

“It’ll be better when you get home, back to your own bed.”

“Maybe.” Ryan only answers because Jon looks like he’s waiting for one. He doesn’t know how to tell Jon or Spencer or anyone that he’s scared to go home. He hates the hospital, but it’s safe and there are people who can take care of him. Ryan’s home is just a musty, empty place where the remnants of Ryan’s life used to be. Ryan knows Spencer stops by there twice a week with Brendon to open windows and keep the place tidy in anticipation for Ryan’s return, but there’s nowhere that feels like home anymore.

Their conversation dies down after that and Ryan falls into a hazy, medicated sleep. He can hear faintly, like its part of a dream, Jon humming. Ryan can’t place the song, but it’s comforting all the same. When he dreams, Ryan is complete: two arms, two legs, full and happy. Very rarely do the dark corners of Ryan’s mind creep into his sleep, the last conscious moments before the crash replaying over and over like a movie that Ryan can’t shut off. That doesn’t happen this time, though. He just feels warm all over. 

***

Ryan is awake an hour later to eat his lunch. He’s inelegant in his movements now. Every task is without grace, just a means to get by. He hadn’t wanted to ask Jon for help with eating, choosing instead to stab at the bland meal spread out on his plate. Doctor Harken comes to see Ryan an hour after lunch. He has Ryan’s folder tucked under the arm of his long lab coat and he smiles at Ryan as he enters the room.

“Ryan! I’m glad to see you’ve begun attending therapy once again,” Dr. Harken says. He’s too cheerful for his job, for the sort of news he delivers. “It’ll really speed up your recovery process if you keep participating.” It’s what Ryan always hears from Harken. He says that Ryan will ‘feel better if has a more positive outlook on his life,’ ‘if he acts like he’s a victim, then that’s all he’ll ever be’. “The patient’s mindset is half the battle,” Dr. Harken reminds Ryan.

This is the first time Jon's ever been around Doctor Harken. He leans forward to catch the doctor’s words like they alone will cure Ryan. Dr. Harken lowers Ryan’s gown over his shoulder, his stub, but he doesn’t unwrap the dressing around the appendage. Dr. Harken just feels around Ryan’s stump, over the bandages, touching and prodding. “You’ve been healing nicely. I’d say you’re pretty close to getting yourself out of here, Mr. Ross.”

Jon breaks into a full-on grin, but Ryan feels a flutter of nerves bubble in his chest. “There is some information I wanted to pass along. It’s not an order, but I highly recommend that you attend a support group for amputees.” Ryan visibly flinches at the word. He hates all sorts of labels: emo, hipster, drug addict, now amputee. Dr. Harken opens Ryan’s patient folder and withdraws a pamphlet. He has to reach over a little awkwardly, leaning over Ryan to make sure that he takes the pamphlet in his hand.

The pamphlet is for a support group entitled ‘Life Is Not a Limb: Living with and Recovering from an Amputation’. Ryan doesn’t open it, his arm tired, but he does stare down at the bright illustration of a man and woman smiling at each other. The man is missing an arm and the woman, who’s in a wheelchair, is missing her leg. Ryan looks back up to Dr. Harken and, behind him, Jon.

“Talking to others who are going through the same thing you are is valuable to your recovery, Ryan. If you complete this support group course, I’d have no problem sending you home.”

Again, the burst of nerves in Ryan’s chest flutters, but he manages a small smile. “I’ll go then, I guess,” Ryan says. Dr. Harken nods, smiles, and closes up Ryan’s folder.

“ I’ll have Nurse Carly set up the dates and make the arrangements. The support group is in the annex connected to the right wing of the hospital. We can have one of your staff escort you. You’re welcome to bring a friend,” Dr. Harken says as he glances back at Jon.

Ryan nods. He doesn’t care about the fine details. The nurse will come to take him and he’ll attend the group and then he’ll go home. The details after that are what he cares about. Dr. Harken takes his leave with a promise to check up on Ryan later. Jon picks up the plastic bag of goodies he’d brought with him and says, “Checkers?”

***

Spencer is at the hospital the day Ryan is slated to begin his group therapy. Spencer already knows about Ryan attending physical therapy and his impending visit to the group therapy session later that day. Jon didn’t tell Spencer like Ryan had thought would happen. No, Spencer gathered all his information that morning while chatting with Ryan’s nurses as he walked the hallways, not wanting to wake Ryan up before he really had to.

Spencer is sitting in the uncomfortable chair, head bowed, typing out a quick text on his phone. His hair is the longest Ryan’s ever seen it, like Spencer is so caught up in Ryan’s recovery that he can’t take the time to get himself a haircut. Spencer has also gained back some of the weight he had lost in the half-year that Ryan and Spencer hadn’t talked. Spencer and, by proxy, Brendon have halted work on the third Panic album. They’d stopped working on it after they found out about the accident. Ryan never asks about it and Spencer never talks about it. Ryan only knows because Jon had mentioned it during one of his idle conversations with Ryan. He’s not sure if they stopped working on the album out of respect for Ryan and the situation or because Spencer is spending ninety-five percent of his time at the hospital … or both.

“Do you want me to go to the group with you?” Spencer asks. He looks up and brushes his hair away from his face.

“You don’t have to. It’ll be boring, I bet.”

“I was looking at the pamphlet. It said that a friend understanding what you’re going through is a huge step to recovery.”

“Then come with me. I don’t really care either way,” Ryan snaps. He doesn’t mean to. It’s just Albert had sent up some work for him to do in his room: thick sheets of paper and several writing instruments, a pen, pencil, fat markers and sharpies. Albert told him to write, write whatever he wanted, but the most valuable thing would be his name.

The paper in front of Ryan on the plywood tray attached to a mobile arm is crammed with messy scribbles that only vaguely look like George Ryan Ross the third. Ryan is working with the marker, thick and clumsy in his fingers. Ryan has the desperate urge to switch hands, his body and mind rejecting the idea of writing with his left hand. It’s frustrating, and every smudge, every unreadable word, is like a slap in the face, reminding him of how different his life is now.

“I’ll go. I’ll sit in the back in case you need me. I want to hear what they have to say,” Spencer decides for them. Ryan nods and his fingers twitch, skewing the R in his middle name.

Eventually the nurse, Carly, comes to escort Ryan to the group meeting. They walk in a line down the maze of hallways. Carly leads Ryan, Spencer hangs back, and Ryan is tucked, protected, between the two of them. The group meets up in a large room that looks like a renovated classroom, complete with a chalkboard stretching along the wall and metal folding chairs formed into a loose circle. There are a few people already situated in the chairs or seated in their wheelchairs, awaiting the beginning of the meeting.

Carly introduces Ryan and Spencer to the group leader, Mark. He’s short and thin and has a nice smile. He’s also missing an arm. Mark is missing his left, opposite of Ryan’s right. Ryan realizes pretty quickly that they can’t shake hands. Mark seems to have encountered this before (of course he has) and offers Ryan his fist instead. “We use fist bumps around here. It’s almost as good as a handshake,” Mark jokes. Ryan laughs awkwardly and allows Carly and Spencer to help him to a seat, Spencer claiming one of his own in the back, near the door.

As the minutes leading up to the beginning of the meeting grow shorter and shorter, more and more people show up. Most, if not all, of the metal folding chairs are taken by the time the meeting starts. There is a little boy sitting to Ryan’s left, probably around eight or nine, and he too is missing an arm – his right arm, just like Ryan.

“Hi,” the little boy says, peering up at Ryan with big brown eyes and a smile. “My name is Sam. What’s your name?”

“I’m Ryan.” Ryan is a little startled that this boy has decided to talk to him. He’s never been good with children, and these last few weeks, Ryan’s been living in this shell, convinced that, to the outside world, he looks just as off-putting as he feels. This little kid is smiling at him, though, and Ryan finds after a long moment that he’s smiling back.

“What happened to your arm?” Sam asks. He points to the ruins of Ryan’s right arm. Ryan isn’t sure if this is a group thing or just a child’s curiosity, but either way, he figures he’d better get used to it.

“I got into a very bad car accident.” From behind him, Ryan can feel the weight of Spencer’s gaze. He wonders what Spencer thinks of this conversation, if he’ll ask about it later. Sam’s eyes brighten as Ryan gives him the answer and he bounces a bit, nodding sagely.

“Me, too. I was driving with my daddy and we crashed. My arm got pulled off and the police found it in a field by our car. Did that happen to you, too?” Sam asks. Ryan is blown away by the easy, forthcoming way Sam talks about what happened to him. Ryan hasn’t talked about the crash with anyone, yet here’s this child, telling him the gory details of his own accident.

“Um … no. They took my arm after I was here. I woke up and it was gone.”

“Were you sad? I was sad,” Sam admits.

“I’m still sad. I’m mad, too.”

“That’s why you come here!” Sam tells Ryan, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Mr. Mark will make you not mad anymore.”

“Sam,” Ryan says after a long moment. Sam looks up at him with his tiny body, still growing, and Ryan can only imagine the kind of pain the kid will feel as his bones stretch with age. “Is your Daddy okay?”

Sam screws up his face, his shaggy, sandy-blonde hair slipping into his eyes. “No, my daddy went to heaven with Grandma. That’s what my Mom said.”

Ryan wishes he never would’ve asked. It’s true that Ryan lost both his father and his arm, but not at the same time. He can’t even imagine handling both of those issues at the same time, yet this little boy is sitting here and telling Ryan that he won’t be sad. It’s jarring, but it’s hopeful at the same time.

“My dad is in heaven, too,” Ryan says after a small silence. 

***

The meeting is filled with nothing Ryan hasn’t heard before. Mark talks about how important it is to have your family supporting you. Ryan balks at the idea. Post-accident, Spencer had called Ryan’s mother. She’d flown out the very next day and showed up in Ryan’s hospital room, a weeping, jittery mess.

Ryan remembers his mother fawning over him. She was worse than Spencer; she cried more. She kept telling him that “this happened for a reason. I know this was meant to happen. This is our chance to come together again.” She would clutch his good hand and kiss it, crying on him. Ryan scoffs at the idea. He was fated to lose his arm so he could reconnect to his mother, who left him in the first place? If his father dying wasn’t enough to bring Ryan and his mother back together, then nothing ever will.

She hadn’t stayed long, just long enough to make sure Ryan would live. When Ryan declined her invitation to come and live with her and his step-brother after he was released from the hospital, she had handed the reigns over to Spencer, kissed Ryan on the forehead, and then she was gone.

Other than his mom, Ryan has no other family to lend their support. It’s Spencer and Jon slipping into the roles of his parents, providing a backbone. Ryan looks back over his shoulder at Spencer. Spencer is paying attention to Mark, but his gaze drifts to Ryan and he smiles small. Ryan is suddenly very glad that Spencer ignored him and decided to come along.

Throughout the meeting, Ryan can’t stop thinking about how different his life is now than it was a mere five months ago. He feels a bit like he’s traveled back into the past even though he’s nowhere near the same person he was before. Half a year ago, Ryan wasn’t even communicating with Spencer or Brendon; he spent all his time with Jon and Alex and Z and all his other friends in Echo Park. Everything is backwards now. Ryan sees Spencer nearly every day. He hasn’t talked to Alex or Vincent in two months.

Alex had come up to see Ryan after the accident, after Ryan was transferred from the first hospital he was taken to in Colorado and flown to the main hospital, where he now resides in L.A. He didn’t stay long. He made sure Ryan was okay, called Ryan an asshole for sticking his arm out the window, promised to keep the local hipsters updated with information, and left. Ryan had been pretty blissed out on his pain medication and doesn’t remember the conversation all that much. Regardless, Alex hasn’t been back since. Ryan does get the occasional text message from Alex, something along the lines of “I’m at the greatest party ever, wish you were here.” Ryan never knows what to say back to shit like that.

Ryan gets that it must be hard to see him in such a state, even harder if you’re someone like Alex, a floater whose life is all music and partying and crashing on strangers’ couches, sleeping until your next drink. There’s no place for an amputee in Ryan’s old group of friends. He can’t picture himself living that sort of life anymore. He can’t even drink because of the medication he’s on; even if he could, he’s not sure he’d want to. Ryan’s already lost so much control over himself and he doesn’t want to risk losing any more. He can’t stay out all night or fall asleep on couches or slip away with the aid of drugs. That can’t be his life anymore, and as a result, he’s lost touch with the people who still live that way.

Z was touring with The Like when the accident happened. Jon said she had called, how she said it’d be days before she could be there to see Ryan. He said she was crying. Z cancelled a few shows and came to be with Ryan. Ryan remembers waking up and seeing her sitting there at his side. She looked so out of place in the sterile environment of the hospital, a blonde doll in her bright mini-dress and knee socks, her dramatic make-up. She was a comfortable memory, a piece of home.

Z had told Ryan that she wanted to cancel the rest of their tour to stay and help, but Ryan told her no, to go because that’s what he wanted her to do. Fuck, if he still had his arm, that’s what he would be doing, and nothing would keep him from it. It took some convincing, but she finally gave in and decided to finish out the tour. “But then I’ll be back, okay? Right here with you.” She had kissed him gently on the mouth before she left the room.

They’re still dating, still together, but Ryan hasn’t spoken to her in two weeks.

"The loss of a limb is equivalent to the loss of a close relative," Mark says. He walks the small circle of chairs, smiling at the people filling them. Ryan is comfortable here. Everyone is going through the same thing and there are people who are nodding and smiling and there’s Sam, who’s staring at Mark like he’s seeing a God who can save them all. It helps to think maybe Ryan could one day feel like that, too, shed this cynical skin, leave the fear, and live like he had before.

Carly doesn’t come to collect Ryan after the group meeting is over. It doesn’t matter because Spencer is there and it’s not a long or dangerous walk back to Ryan’s room. “I don’t know if I told you, but –” Ryan starts. Spencer looks up at Ryan. “I appreciate you coming here, doing all of this for me, considering all that happened.”

“It’s nothing, Ryan. I didn’t even have to think about it. They called me and told me what happened and I just knew. There was no hesitation, you know? You’re my best friend – in the past, now, and always. If you need me, I’ll be here. You would do the same for me, wouldn’t you?”

Ryan says yes without a thought, without hesitation, but if he really thinks about it … he doesn’t want to admit it, but he wouldn’t be here half as much as Spencer is now if it were the other way around. He’d be like Alex, he’d be touring like Z, and he’d be sending encouraging text messages as the minimum means of contact, just enough to get by. He says, “Yes, I would be there, without a doubt.”

Ryan gets back to his room and eats dinner, but he can’t stop thinking about the circle of people around him and the words Mark had said. What really sticks with Ryan are the words about how the amputee needs to remember the person they were before the accident: “Reclaim your former self!” as Mark likes to say. The keys to recovery include remembering who you are and being seen as the same person you were before by your friends and family. Ryan has read the pamphlet that Dr. Harken had given him, has practically memorized the information, and he knows now that if the amputee themselves cannot see their self as that same person then their friends, their family need to act as a buffer; they need to see Ryan as a full person.

Ryan doesn’t see himself. He sees the space empty and full, invisible and evident at the same time. Spencer leaves to grab some coffee and some of the mediocre food from the café downstairs. Ryan lies there thinking while Spencer is gone. He feigns sleep when Spencer returns. He doesn’t want to talk; even if he did, he’s too caught up in his own thoughts to carry on a conversation right now. He pretends to sleep until he really does slip into unconsciousness.

***

Waking up is strange. There’s always a brief moment where Ryan is shrugging off sleep and actually forgets – he never thought he could forget that he’s missing a limb, but it happens. He pushes his hand through his hair and rubs over his face. All the urges are still there, the connections in his brain that say, “This is where your arm is going to move.” It just never comes full circle.

“You’ve got a gift, Ryan,” Carly says as she enters the room. Ryan is still a little blurry around the edges, and he blinks and mumbles something about it being way too early for any kind of gift. There’s a clock in his room, but Ryan rarely uses it. Time doesn’t matter when you’re stuck in the same tiny bed with the same sheets and blankets and the same salmon-colored walls. Ryan’s days blur, time marked only by the arrival of Spencer or the nurses, a meal, or somewhere Ryan needs to be.

Carly is carrying a bright pot of fresh sunflowers; the pot is wrapped with a fat, white bow. She sets them on the wide windowsill in Ryan’s room. “There’s a card attached. Would you like me to read it?” Ryan figures that the flowers are from a friend, maybe Will or Pete – he’s been up to the hospital a few times – or a fan who found out where Ryan’s staying.

“Sure,” Ryan grumbles thickly.

Carly smiles and pulls the little white card from the bouquet of flowers. “Dearest Ryan, I heard you’re doing better. I thought you deserved to have a little sunshine in your life. Love, Keltie. P.S. Never stop dreaming.”

Ryan smiles despite himself. This is not the first time Keltie has sent flowers. She sends them maybe once every two weeks or so with a new and equally hokey message attached. When she found out Ryan was in the hospital, she had left a series of sobbing voicemails on Ryan’s cell phone, willing him not to die, that Ryan couldn’t leave this life until their problems were worked out.

“That’s nice,” Carly says sincerely. She hides the card within the sunny petals of the flowers. There’s light streaming in through the average-sized window of Ryan’s room, bathing everything it touches in gold. It’s comforting. It’s summer now, and the air is warm and pleasant, trickling in from where Carly had cracked open the window.

Ryan isn’t so angry at the world today. There isn’t a hostile undercurrent running through Ryan’s body. He doesn’t blame Will for the accident. It’d be easy to do, he knows, but it was late and raining. Will was only doing his job. If it had been anyone else behind the wheel, Ryan believes none of them would have come out nearly as good as they had. He doesn’t blame Will; he doesn’t know who to blame. Maybe there is no one to blame? Maybe God is to blame. Ryan initially blamed himself because he was the one who unbuckled himself and went to reach for the cell phone. Ryan doesn’t like to think about it. He doesn’t blame anyone.

Jon comes to the hospital after breakfast, but he isn’t alone. To Ryan’s surprise, Brendon is tagging along behind him. “Who sent flowers?” Jon asks as he sets down the paper cup of coffee he’s carrying on one of the small, square tables that decorate Ryan’s room.

“Keltie,” Ryan says. He watches Brendon shift around awkwardly. Brendon seems to notice Ryan is looking at him and he grins wide and a little nervous. It reminds Ryan a lot of the first time he met Brendon. It feels like an eternity ago.

“Hi, Ryan. How are you feeling?” Brendon asks. Brendon’s gaze settles on Ryan’s face and doesn’t drift, like he’s afraid to even look at another part of Ryan’s body, in fear of locking down on the stub of Ryan’s arm. Brendon never had a solid grasp on dealing with Ryan before, but now he’s just walking on eggshells. Ryan hates that the most.

“Not so bad today.”

“Good! That’s good.”

Jon sits in the uncomfortable chair and lets Brendon take the partner beside it. Brendon’s legs start moving the second he sits down, but Jon ignores it, choosing to focus on Ryan instead.

“We let Spencer have the day off,” Jon says, answering a question that Ryan never asked. Spencer deserves some time to himself. The conversation is unusually stilted. Ryan is used to Brendon filling up the silence with whatever babble he can, he’s bore witness to it more times than he can count, but Brendon is silent, head bowed and sneakers bouncing against the tiled floor. Jon does the best he can in leading the conversation. There are a lot of things they just can’t discuss when it’s the three of them.

Brendon doesn’t know Will or The Nicks, for one thing, and music is a topic no one will touch – the wounds from that topic have never gotten the chance to fully heal, were just glossed over for the more urgent issue of Ryan losing his arm. Jon winds up talking about how Brendon has wanted to teach him how to surf, how good Spencer and Brendon have gotten at it. “I don’t want to be eaten by a shark,” Jon points out.

Jon has a way of calming Brendon that Ryan never really understands but has always been grateful for. As Jon talks, Brendon visibly relaxes. He stops moving his legs; instead, he smiles and meets Ryan’s gaze. Brendon laughs, which is a surprise to Ryan. It’s been so long since anyone has laughed in the tiny space of the room. Brendon looks frightened for a moment, like he did something wrong, but Ryan smiles and Brendon loosens just a little more. “You won’t be eaten, Jon. I mean look at me. I’m delicious, but not one shark has sniffed around me.”

Jon chuckles and opens his mouth to reply, but the jarring noise of his cell phone ringing stops him. Jon looks at his phone. Ryan watches and notices Jon's eyes dim as he reads the I.D. of the caller. He looks up, his face so oddly serious that Ryan is afraid that someone has died, that some terrible tragedy has befallen someone else.

“I, uh … I need to take this. I’ll just be –” Jon trails off, pointing out the door instead of answering. Ryan nods. Brendon looks a little alarmed as he watches Jon go, like the worst thing for him is to be left alone with Ryan. Ryan catches the beginning of Jon's conversation, his “Yeah, I can talk. Sorry. I was visiting Ryan –” before the door to Ryan’s room closes and the sound dies with it.

Silence rushes to fill up every square inch of the room. Brendon coughs awkwardly and scratches at the back of his neck. “Hey, Ryan?” Brendon asks.

“Yeah, Brendon?”

Brendon bites at his lip and ducks his head. “I’m sorry for not visiting more. I know I need to.”

“Hey, it’s fine. I know it’s hard for you.” Ryan shrugs. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want anyone to feel like they have to come see him. The very last thing he wants to be in life is a burden, an obligation to his friends.

Brendon makes a face. “Are you serious? No matter how hard it is for me, I know that it’s so much harder for you. I’m being selfish. You’re my friend and I should –”

“Has Spencer been lecturing you?” Ryan interrupts. God, he hopes not. He doesn’t want Spencer forcing people to visit. Brendon’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline and he shakes his head, his hands waving around a bit.

“No, no! He just talks about you a lot. He talks about your group meetings and stuff like that. He said you need us, that it’s important.” Ryan doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say. He just shrugs again.

“So they say.”

Brendon scrubs his hands over his face, pushing nimble fingers into his hair. His head is tipped back against the wood of the chair, exposing the long column of his throat. Ryan watches his Adam’s apple bob when Brendon swallows. “I don’t know how you’re doing this, Ryan. I know you. I know what music means to you. If it were me, I just don’t know how I’d do it.”

Some bitter part of Ryan grumbles that Brendon doesn’t have to know how he’d do it. It’s not him and hopefully never will be. It is Ryan, though, and nothing will ever change that. He had a normal life. He was a normal person, all things considered, but after that day, he changed. He’s not Ryan Ross anymore. He’s Ryan, who doesn’t have an arm; he’s that musician that got in an accident, that poor thing. He’s not Ryan … never just Ryan.

“You’d just do it. You’d do it because you have to. You have to keep living because you’ll keep waking up every day and you’ll be alive and by the end of the night, when you’re so tired, you’ll think of how you made it through one more day and you won’t even know how really, but you did it, and you’ll do it again. That’s what you’d do, Brendon.”

In that moment, Ryan has said things he hasn’t voiced to anyone. He’s been more honest with Brendon in a handful of minutes than he has in the two months with Spencer. Maybe it’s just easier with Brendon. Spencer would want to discuss it at length and Jon … well, Jon would be good to tell, too, but Ryan never feels like he can. Despite Jon sharing the experience of the accident with Ryan, it’s still hard. Ryan still can’t bring himself to tell Jon about the times he’s not sure of himself, about when he’s scared. Jon was in the accident, too, but he’s not scared.

Brendon is like a sponge. He’ll absorb what Ryan said and he’ll keep it inside of him. He won’t make Ryan say more than he knows Ryan wants to.

“Can I ask you a question?” Brendon says a few moments later, once he’s sure Ryan is finished talking. Ryan nods and Brendon’s eyes flicker with what looks like nerves before he swallows and speaks. “What about a prosthetic?”

“What about it?” Ryan asks. He knows where this is going, but he’d like to avoid it if he could.

Brendon rolls his shoulders. “You could have one, couldn’t you? Did the doctors tell you? Spencer never said –”

“It’s not for me,” Ryan interrupts. “They’ve offered it and gave me some information, but … it’s not – not yet.” Dr. Harken had already offered Ryan a prosthetic. It’s not that Ryan hates the idea. The problem is that he can’t accept that his arm is gone. How is he supposed to live with another arm when he can’t even acknowledge that his first one is gone?

Brendon lets it go. He looks like he has more to say, but he lets the topic drop. Brendon stands up. Ryan thinks he’s going to make some excuse to leave the room, but Brendon moves cautiously towards Ryan, like Ryan is a dangerous animal that Brendon stumbled upon.

“Brendon, what are you –” Ryan starts. He’s silenced by Brendon suddenly leaning over him and hugging him carefully. It’s a one-armed hug, but it’s a hug all the same.

“I’ve missed you, Ryan. I really mean it.”

Ryan pats Brendon’s side. “Thanks, man.”

Brendon slips away and goes back to his seat. They’re quiet again, but it’s not like before. It’s easier. Ryan feels like he can breathe.

Jon comes back a few moments later. He looks tired and slips his phone into the pocket of his jeans before reclaiming his seat. He looks crestfallen, but he doesn’t make a mention of who was on the phone or if something bad has happened.

“Is everything okay, Jon?” Brendon asks. Jon looks up, startled, like he had forgotten that Brendon and Ryan were even in the room with him.

“Hm? Yeah, it’s fine. What were you two talking about?” Jon asks. His voice is flat, almost sad. Ryan frowns.

“Oh, well, I was just telling Ryan how I want him to come over to my place once he gets out of here so that the four of us can have dinner or something.”

Jon nods to show he’s listening, but he looks like he’s a million miles away. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

***

It turns out Brendon doesn’t have to wait very long for that dinner. Within the next week, Doctor Harken deems Ryan healthy and adjusted enough that he can be discharged. He’s not let go without strings attaching him back to the hospital, though. Ryan will have to come in for his physical therapy twice a month. The Life Is Not a Limb group meetings are optional and held three times a month, but Ryan still wants to go.

Spencer is the one who comes to the hospital to take him home. Spencer has a duffle bag of Ryan’s clothes with him, and he sets it on Ryan’s tiny hospital bed. Today is the last time he’ll see this particular bed, this particular room, and Ryan is practically giddy from the thought. There’s an edge of fear, though. He’s spent two months here and now it feels like he’s stretched between two places.

"I brought a lot of clothes. I didn’t know what you’d want," Spencer says. He stands next to Ryan as he unzips the bag. Ryan digs around with his hand, unearthing the clothes Spencer had probably washed and folded and packed away with care.

"I want what’s easy," Ryan says. Its unfortunate how many of his shirts are button-downs. Spencer thankfully had packed an old t-shirt of Ryan’s, and he fishes it out to show Ryan, waiting for approval. "That will work." Ryan fumbles with the top of the gown, fingers working the snaps along the left shoulder open. Spencer has to move around behind him and untie the strings holding the gown on Ryan’s frail body. Spencer lowers the gown off of Ryan, which would feel too intimate if it were anyone else but Spencer.

Spencer pulls the t-shirt down over Ryan’s head. The sleeve stops just at the spot where Ryan’s stub ends. Ryan already feels too exposed and they haven’t even stepped foot out of the room yet. "Here," Spencer says. He digs through the bag and pulls out one of Ryan’s dark blazers. "I thought you might want it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I want it." Spencer holds the blazer open behind Ryan and Ryan works his left arm into the sleeve of the blazer. The right is harder. It’s been so long since Ryan’s had to wear anything resembling real clothes that he feels unsettled once he’s fully dressed. He already hates that, with each move of his body, the right sleeve of his shirt flutters emptily, void of weight.

Ryan goes to sign some release forms that Carly sets on the counter for him. “I left those sunflowers for you,” Ryan tells her as he struggles to sign his name. Carly smiles at him. “A memento of me,” he adds, smiling a bit. Spencer laughs. Life begins to feel normal.

It’s warm and bright outside. The soft California breeze pushes at Ryan like it’s leading him along a path, delivering him home. It’s the first time Ryan’s been outside in two months. Everything is as it was the last time Ryan saw it. It wasn’t like he expected the world to change in two months, but he changed, and he almost expects the world to have done it with him.

Spencer’s car is parked out in the patient pick-up lot. Ryan glances back at the hospital: the hustle of doctors and nurses and patients, days that go on forever. Spencer looks like he wants to help Ryan get in the car, but Ryan stops him before he even starts. “I got it,” he says. He does … he’s capable. Ryan thought he’d be scared being back in a car, but he’s not, really. Spencer keeps the speed low and drives carefully down the crowded streets. Ryan flinches sometimes, when a car’s horn honks too loud or someone behind them decides Spencer is driving too slow and passes them.

“I was thinking,” Spencer says. He watches the road as he talks.

“About what?”

“I was thinking I should stay with you.”

“What?” Ryan says distractedly. He’s staring out the window, watching the streets become more and more familiar. “Are you and Brendon having problems?”

“No,” Spencer sighs, almost amused. “No, dude, I meant I should stay with you until you’re comfortable being on your own.”

“Oh,” Ryan says, “Oh, yeah. That’d be alright. I don’t know what sort of state the guest bedroom is in, but you’re welcome to it.”

“I cleaned up your place,” Spencer says, throwing a glance at Ryan. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“I never mind free labor, Spence.”

Spencer laughs. “Hey, Brendon wants you over for dinner tonight. Do you feel up to it or are you tired?”

Ryan nods. “We can go. I want to. I’m excited to eat some real food. I’m a little scared the shit at the hospital has affected my sense of taste.”

Spencer smiles. “He makes really good spaghetti.” 

***

Brendon’s place is warm and inviting. Bogart hops around Ryan’s ankles, begging to be petted. Spencer deflects the small dog, shooing him away. Jon meets them at the door, smiling wider than Ryan’s seen in a long time. He doesn’t wait for them to cross the small expanse of the front yard. Instead, he rushes down to them with bare feet, his sunglasses perched on the top of his head.

“Welcome back, stranger,” Jon says as he pulls Ryan into a hug. He’s careful, but he uses both of his arms to hug Ryan, circling them around his thin body and holding him in close. Ryan rests his palm against the back of Jon's shoulder blade, his skin hot through the thin material of his t-shirt, like he’d been hanging around outside for too long. Ryan can imagine it: Jon outside waiting for them, throwing fuzzy green tennis balls for Bogart to catch.

Jon releases Ryan and then claps Spencer on the shoulder, nodding towards the house. “Brendon’s been slaving away at a hot stove all day.”

“That’s a lie! He didn’t even wake up until noon,” Spencer says. Jon hums and rubs at his bearded chin before he turns to face the front door and shouts, “Brendon! Your overworked housewife routine isn’t going to work!”

“Will an apron help? Because I have one!” Brendon shouts back. Spencer rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing fondly and Ryan joins in. The nerves that have been occupying Ryan’s chest seem to dissolve. The four of them are okay – they’re talking and they’re okay and this is good. This is like Pretty Odd good.

Jon leads them into Brendon’s house. Nothing’s changed from the last time Ryan was here, except the place is decorated a little better (Spencer’s touch, no doubt). Brendon is cooking in the kitchen, but he leans out the archway to wave to Ryan.

“Does it feel good to be out of there?” Brendon asks.

“First day of the rest of my life.” Ryan had been thinking about it ever since he learned he’d be released from the hospital’s care. What would he do now? Before, the answer would’ve been simple: pick back up where he left off, touring or playing small gigs, giving interviews. Now, though, the thought of music makes him feel sick to his stomach, makes his heart feel like it’s being clawed to shreds. Ryan doesn’t know what to do with himself now.

Jon hooks his arm around Ryan’s and leads him towards the couch. “You wanna smoke up before dinner?” he asks. Ryan can feel Spencer stiffen behind him and see when Jon notices the hard gaze that Spencer must be giving him behind Ryan’s back.

“Is that exactly safe?” Spencer asks.

Jon nods as he sits, Ryan joining him a half second later. “I’ve been Googling. Seems to check out.”

Spencer doesn’t seem convinced, but Ryan really doesn’t care. Nowhere did it say he couldn’t smoke weed or even cigarettes – not that he does, but the point is that he could if he wanted to – and, frankly, his life prior to the accident did involve a copious amount of weed. He’s not exactly eager to go rushing back to all his vices, but weed is something he’ll do.

“It’ll help the pain if anything,” Ryan says more to the room at large than directly to Spencer. Ryan peeks up at Spencer’s face. After all this time, he’s still a little on edge about disappointing Spencer. Spencer, though, seems to have given up any argument he may have had and instead carefully sits himself next to Ryan on the right side of the couch, Ryan sandwiched between Jon and Spencer.

“Brendon!” Jon calls, “Take a smoke break with us!”

There’s a clattering sound from the kitchen, but Ryan isn’t really paying attention. His arm – his stump is more accurate, but Ryan hesitates to even classify that as a part of his body – aches dully, working its way up Ryan’s shoulder and back down the length of what’s left of his arm. Most of the time, Ryan tries to ignore it and move his shoulder a little in small circles like Albert taught him. Ryan watches Jon pack the bowl. It’s nothing new or exciting, having watched it happen a thousand times, but now Ryan is more focused on Jon’s hands, the simple way his fingers move, the way his muscles flex under skin. Ryan feels suddenly alone, bitter at everyone in the room. He’s angry that he can no longer even do something as simple as pack a bowl of weed for them to smoke.

Brendon makes his way out to his living room. Before, he would just squeeze himself onto the couch, nudging and shuffling until he found himself a spot between two of them. Now, Brendon sits on his coffee table in front of Jon, body tight. Ryan looks at him for the first time since the hospital visit. Brendon smiles small and kind, but he looks like he has things he wants to say and ask but won’t.

“Dinner should be ready soon,” Brendon says in place of all the things Ryan knows he wishes he could say.

“Great,” Spencer says. “It smells good.”

“Better than that hospital shit for sure. I don’t think I can eat chocolate pudding ever again after that,” Ryan says, which earns him a few hesitant, nervous laughs. Ryan frowns at his lap, his only arm curled along the side of his leg, his remaining, solitary hand resting on his knee. Maybe it was the accident or the split, or just a combination of the two, but Ryan can feel the tension pressing in on all sides, hanging thick like fog in the room.

Jon saves the situation by lighting the bowl. The three of them watch him take his own deep drag; as customary weed-smoking etiquette goes, the bowl will go to Ryan next. Ryan isn’t sure how he’s going to smoke, though, seeing as he doesn’t have two hands to hold the pipe and flick the lighter. Jon seems to know this, too, and he carefully passes the pipe, helping Ryan adjust his grip on it and bringing the lighter to life. Ryan holds the pipe to his mouth. Jon blazes the weed. Ryan can smoke like this – he can take his hit and then let Spencer lift the pipe from his fingers for his own hit.

It’s not ideal, but nothing is ideal anymore. Every task is an effort which requires teamwork. Ryan can’t imagine the thought of living the rest of his life this way. His chest feels tight and he coughs in a desperate attempt to catch some air, clear his head. Jon reaches behind him and gently thumps his back, letting his palm rest against Ryan’s back even after Ryan has caught his breath.

The four of them smoke up for a while, passing the pipe, and one of them – usually Jon because it’s easiest that way – will help Ryan out. Eventually, Brendon returns to the kitchen. The bowl empties. Ryan maybe falls asleep with his head on Spencer’s shoulder, because the next time his eyes open, it’s to Jon looking over him and telling him that dinner’s ready.

Ryan lifts his head from Spencer’s shoulder and blinks sheepishly at them. Jon offers Ryan his hand and Ryan laces his fingers with Jon’s, Spencer’s hand present on Ryan’s back to help him get up. Ryan yawns. He’s still tired, has been tired for weeks, and he’s excited to eat dinner and then go home to his own bed.

Their dinner is spaghetti. Brendon beams at them like a proud mother, the apron he had been wearing while he cooked long since abandoned. Spaghetti is easy because Ryan can eat it on his own, carefully twirling his fork around the noodles. The only difference is that it’s a lot messier now. If he wants to wipe his face, he’s got to set down his fork and start all over again. He can feel three sets of eyes trained on him. It’s annoying, but Ryan knows he needs to get used to it. People will always stare and wonder if they should be helping him, if Ryan is too proud to ask for that help.

In this case, he is too proud. He doesn’t want to be helped to eat. He doesn’t want to be helped with anything.

There’s conversation during dinner, but it’s between Jon, Brendon, and Spencer, about the things that have been happening outside of the hospital and Ryan’s experiences. Ryan tries to follow along, but mostly he listens distractedly, more concerned with making sure his hand gets the food to his mouth.

“Have you still been writing for the album?” Jon asks Brendon. Ryan can feel the sharp gasp of air from Jon, the stunted, awkward way the room falls silent. Ryan knows Jon hadn’t meant to mention music or the Panic album around Ryan, that it was a slip, an echo of a conversation that was had while Ryan was away. Jon glances at Ryan, looking sheepish, embarrassed. Brendon stares at his plate of food and Spencer watches Ryan with worried eyes, like a parent would a child who just heard that Santa doesn’t exist.

Ryan waits, but the longer the silences stretches on, the more he realizes that the three of them don’t have anything else to say, aren’t willing to pick up and carry on. They’re waiting for him. Ryan sets down his fork and clears his throat. Really, he’s never been good at shit like this; they can’t possibly expect him to be now.

“It’s … its okay,” Ryan says. It’s true for the most part. It’s not like he didn’t know upon leaving the band that Brendon and Spencer would continue making music – maybe not as Panic, but that’s an issue he’s long since put to rest. “I…” Ryan starts, but he doesn’t know how to continue. Music was something he hadn’t thought about since the accident. He hadn’t allowed himself the time to think about where music fits into his life now. “I’m fine.”

It’s a lie. He’s not fine.

That tight sort of feeling, where his skin is restless and his chest is strapped and broke, settles into Ryan’s body, cracking his ribs and damaging his organs, and he chokes on nothing but air. Spencer is watching him, his gaze growing more and more alarmed, but Ryan manages to reel himself back in, settle his mind with a not now, not now, just wait. Don’t give them more reason to pity you.

“You can answer him, Brendon,” Ryan says, his voice edging on desperate. Brendon looks up with guilty eyes and a heavy frown at Spencer and Jon on either side for a sign of whether or not he should listen to Ryan. “I said its fine,” Ryan stresses. He’s not a child. He can handle a conversation.

“Um,” Brendon begins, “I have a bit. Just … just testing, you know? Spencer hasn’t, but he’s been busy and it’s not – I’m not nearly as good as Ryan was. I’m just –”

“Brendon,” Spencer says. Brendon looks at Spencer, all big-eyed and obviously nervous. “This dinner is great,” Spencer finishes and Brendon smiles a little before the two of them launch into what it takes to make a good spaghetti sauce. Ryan goes back to eating, but he feels their eyes on him, especially Jon’s heavy gaze. Ryan can feel the weight of Jon’s eyes locked on his downturned face.

Things are still a little awkward post-dinner. Ryan drops his fork as he hands off his plate to Spencer and you’d think he’d dropped gold or something equally as valuable with the way Spencer and Brendon both rush to retrieve it. Ryan lets that go, but his insides feel hot and his bad arm hurts. He probably needs to take his medication and go to sleep.

Ryan goes to the bathroom – something that he can still manage on his own – and, when he returns to the dining room, Jon is nowhere to be found. Ryan stops and listens. He can hear Spencer and Brendon talking in hushed voices in the kitchen, but not Jon.

Brendon has a pair of sliding glass doors that lead from the dining room and open up into the backyard. Through the crystal-clear, almost invisible glass, Ryan can see Jon sitting by Brendon’s pool. Ryan doesn’t mention to Spencer or Brendon that he’s leaving before he slides outside through the doors. The air is warm with a slightly cool edge swept in from the beach. Jon looks back when he hears the doors and smiles when he sees Ryan standing there.

“Hey,” Jon says companionably. Ryan hears the soft rush of the water and, judging by the abandon pair of flip-flops resting next to Jon’s thigh, Jon’s kicking around the water.

“Hey,” Ryan says back. He moves across the dark lawn, letting the air lick at his skin. He’s still not quite used to being outside again regularly. He hasn’t become a hermit or sheltered. If anything, it’s made him crave the air more. Ryan goes to stand next to Jon. Brendon’s got these lights built into the bottom of his pool. They’re on, glowing up through the water, not thick enough to break the barrier but enough that Ryan can see both of Jon’s submerged legs, his jeans rolled up to his knees.

Jon looks up at Ryan and doesn’t ask if Ryan needs help as Ryan moves to sit himself down. It’s not hard. He braces his one hand against the ground and lowers himself. Ryan’s wearing shoes and socks; before, he might have just taken them off, rolled up his corduroys to join Jon, but now it just feels like too much of an effort, too hard to do alone, especially since he feels too proud to ask for help. Ryan just curls his legs under him and rests his hand on his knee.

Jon watches him out of the corner of his eye. They’re silent, but it’s not as tense as it had been in the kitchen. “So dinner was kinda –” Jon trails off, loosening his hand from where it’s wrapped around a beer bottle and waving it vaguely through the air. “A flop,” he finishes. Ryan laughs and Jon smiles. “I needed a little breather. I guess you did, too?”

“Being treated like a three-year-old is kind of exhausting,” Ryan says with a sigh.

Jon hums but nods. “Spence means well. Brendon … well, he’s trying.”

“I know that, but if Spencer saw me sitting out here, he’d probably tell me to back away from the ledge, like he thinks I’d fall in.”

Ryan knows he doesn’t have the best track record of self-preservation, but he’s also not going to die from the tasks he’s had to take on today. Jon looks at Ryan, suddenly very serious, his forehead crinkled.

“If you fell in –”

“I’d swim,” Ryan answers for Jon. He doesn’t need two arms to save himself from an above ground pool in Brendon’s backyard.

“I’d jump in after you,” Jon finishes. He smiles and Ryan blinks at him before he returns it.

“Always gotta be the hero,” Ryan says, his voice holding a teasing edge. It feels easier with Jon, easier to breathe. Maybe it’s because, before the accident, Ryan was with Jon anyway, whereas he hadn’t seen Spencer or Brendon in months, only now thrown together by tragedy.

Jon laughs. “Or maybe I just want to make up for not saving you before.” His voice has slipped into an oddly serious tone. Ryan doesn’t want that. He wants things to be easy, free, just like before the accident. Ryan ignores what Jon said, the implication that he should’ve been able to save Ryan.

“So I guess you’ll be going home now?” Ryan asks. As far as he knows, Jon hasn’t been back to Chicago in a month or so. It’s strange. Jon loves his home and jumps at any chance to stay in the city. Ryan isn’t conceited enough to assume that Jon was staying here just for him. He had asked for it once upon a time and Jon had turned him down. Now that Ryan’s out of the hospital and assured that he’ll live a somewhat normal life, Jon can and most likely will go home.

Jon takes a deep pull from his beer, beads of condensation dribbling down his knuckles. Brendon’s backyard lights reflect off the water shimmering back at Jon, drowning him in flickering lights that dance against Jon's skin, moving like living shadows around him. Jon sets the bottle of beer down and shakes his head once, hard, his hair brushing into his eyes.

“I’m not, actually.”

That’s a huge surprise. Ryan feels like he should ask for a reason, but the hard set of Jon's jaw is telling Ryan that he shouldn’t, that it’s better to let this drop. “Oh, so you’re going to keep staying with Brendon and Spencer?” Ryan asks. He aims for casual and thinks he lands somewhere around mystified.

Jon laughs a little darkly. “Kinda a full house.”

“Oh,” Ryan says again. He watches the water move with the back and forth motion of Jon's legs.

“Actually,” Jon begins, taking another long draw from his beer bottle, finishing it off. “Actually, I wanted to ask if I could stay with you.”

“You want to stay with me?” Ryan asks. Jon shrugs. He leans over the edge of the pool, his hand brushing the water. He gently sets his beer bottle into the pool, letting it catch and float like a tiny glass ship. Ryan watches it bob over the clean, clear water, making its way to the middle of the pool, until the water that’s been steadily seeping in through the mouth of the bottle overtakes it and the glass bottle sinks to the bottom of Brendon’s pool, disappearing from Ryan’s sight. Ryan fixes his gaze back to Jon. “You know I don’t need a nurse, right?” Ryan asks. “If you’re thinking of staying here because you think I need someone to take care of me, well –”

“Whoa, Ryan! No, that’s not it,” Jon says. He raises his hands in surrender. “You’re my friend. I want to stay with you.”

“Spencer is supposed to,” Ryan mumbles.

“Oh.” Jon sounds crestfallen, resigned to keep staying in Brendon’s guest bedroom as opposed to Ryan’s.

“But –”Ryan meets Jon's eyes. “I’d rather it be you, if I’m being honest.” Their gazes meet and Jon smiles. He looks tired, more tired than Ryan’s noticed these last few days. There are rings around Jon's eyes and his beard is starting to grow out, patchy and untamed. He looks like he could use a good night’s sleep as much as Ryan could. “Come home with me,” Ryan says suddenly. The more he considers the idea, the more he’s sure he isn’t able to handle Spencer babying him. Jon can act as a buffer, a mediator … he can help.

Jon tilts his head to the side. His hair is getting long, curling up at the back of his neck. Ryan’s is too long; he thinks that maybe his first order of business tomorrow should be letting Brendon cut it. “Yeah?” Jon asks. Ryan nods. “I have enough room for both of you.”

Jon scoots back from the edge of the pool, his legs lifting from the water, droplets running in rivets down his calves. “I don’t think I should go with you tonight. I think it should just be the two of you settling in, you know?” Jon says.

Ryan rests his forehead against the upturned palm of his hand, his elbow resting on his knee. “You should come. Now. Tonight. I want you to.” Ryan doesn’t look at Jon. He watches the pool, scanning the darkened depths to try and pick out the bottle that Jon had sunk. He doesn’t know when his mind switched, when he stopped wanting to be alone with Spencer. Maybe it’s not even that – maybe he’s just sick to his stomach at the thought of being coddled every minute for the rest of his life. Before, he would’ve just told Spencer straight out that he was being annoying, but how can he possibly do that now? How can he tell Spencer to stop caring when Spencer is one of the few people left in his life that does care? He can’t. That’s why he needs Jon. “Just come?” Ryan asks, turning his face in his hand so he can look at Jon.

Jon's eyes are serious, but he nods after a moment. “Sure thing, but I’m not spending the night. I’ll drive over and stick around, but I’m coming back here tonight.”

Ryan nods in agreement and Jon stands up with an ease that Ryan is envious of. He looks down at Ryan with an unsure smile. Ryan doesn’t make Jon ask and he doesn’t ask for help, either. He offers his hand, stretching his good arm out, and Jon takes it, locking their fingers together so that Ryan can get off of the ground.

Back inside, Brendon and Spencer have finished cleaning up. The two of them are sitting on the couch, Bogart lying across Brendon’s lap and Spencer sitting close by, their thighs touching as they watch a movie rather distractedly on the TV. Spencer looks expectantly at Ryan and Ryan yawns despite himself.

“I’m pretty tired, Spence.”

Spencer nods and glances at Brendon before he pushes himself up off the couch and stands in front of Ryan and Jon. “Well, we can go if you want to.”

Ryan does want to leave. He longs for his own home, his own bed. Before the accident, he hadn’t been home in two months; it’s been even longer now and he can’t remember how he left it, how his bed felt, if he made it before he left the morning of tour, what food he had in the house, how much of it has gone bad by now. He forgets that time went on without him, his home and possessions decaying around him.

“I’m going to, uh … I’m going to ride over with you guys, Spence,” Jon tells Spencer.

Spencer arches an eyebrow and looks from Jon to Ryan. “Yeah?” he asks. Ryan nods, answering for Jon. “Yeah.”

Spencer doesn’t fight or argue or say no. He’s not a dick and he’s not Ryan’s mother and he can’t actually tell Ryan what to do. Besides, it’s not like Spencer doesn’t trust Jon or that he thinks Jon is a hindrance more than a help – at least, Ryan doesn’t think so.

They say goodbye to Brendon. Ryan thanks him for dinner and Brendon beams at him. Ryan’s suitcase is still tucked into the trunk of Spencer’s car. Ryan’s stomach still twists when he sees the vehicle, but he just breathes and reminds himself that it’s sunny here, warm, no rain, no danger.

Ryan settles himself in the backseat. Spencer opens and closes the back door for him; Ryan doesn’t fight it. He’s tired, too tired to call Spencer out for wanting to help him. Jon and Spencer get in the car. The windows are down and the warm California breeze rolls in, tickling against Ryan’s skin, feeling like fingers that delicately brush the curls out of his face, tucking down into the collar of his dress shirt. Ryan sighs, sucking in the night air, and he feels momentarily good, the safest he has in or around a car since the accident.

The radio is on in the front, turned down low. Jon and Spencer are talking, their voices reduced to low, intelligible mumbles. Ryan rests his head back against the seat and closes his eyes. He feels heavy, his body thick like liquid. He can feel himself slipping into sleep, but before he falls away completely, he hears Jon laugh. Ryan feels his face pull up into a smile.

When his eyes open next, Jon is in front of him. Ryan peers over Jon’s shoulder at the familiar house behind him. Ryan recognizes it as his neighbor’s house, and he smiles. He’s home. “Come on,” Jon says, his voice soft and hazy enough that Ryan almost feels like he’s still dreaming. “Let me help you out.” Ryan lets Jon close his hand around Ryan’s wrist and his other hand goes to Ryan’s left shoulder, helping Ryan turn himself. Ryan’s body feels old and stiff, worn, like he’s held together by tape and string.

Ryan’s stump aches and he realizes his meds must’ve worn off by now. Spencer is behind the car, hefting out Ryan’s luggage from his trunk. “Has anyone even really been here?” Ryan asks as he emerges from the car.

“Jon and I came here and cleaned a little,” Spencer says. He slams his trunk shut and picks up Ryan’s luggage, nodding towards Ryan’s front door. “Jon, could you …?” Jon nods and slips away from Ryan. Ryan’s skin is still hot where Jon had been touching him.

Ryan imagines Spencer and Jon cleaning, examining, and picking up the pieces of Ryan’s life. He wonders what they talked about during that time. Did they discuss what happened to Ryan, how much has changed, and how can they possibly go on from here?

“The moat really feels like a poor decision now,” Ryan mutters as he comes back to himself and follows Spencer up the drive and across the drawbridge. Jon’s waiting at the front door, holding it open enough for Spencer and Ryan to pass through.

“Maybe go in through the backdoor from now on,” Spencer says, laughing a little. “Really, only you would have a moat.”

It had been a cool idea, a huge draw for Ryan when he bought the place. He’s barely lived in his home since he purchased it. He moved in before tour, spent a few weeks there, and then took off for tour. The remainder of his time was spent living out of a hospital. He can’t remember the way he left the house; he can’t remember what he had in the cupboards or his bedroom or what’s still packed away in the boxes that he and Jon shoved into the guest bedroom.

Ryan’s house is familiar, but not enough that it feels like home. Ryan’s been jostled around so much these last few months that nowhere feels like home. Everything is just an echo of the person he used to be. The front door opens up to the entryway, which spreads out to the living room.

The house is barren for the most part. All the important furniture is set up, but the walls are naked and the decorations are minimal. The décor that’s done was done in part because of Z telling Ryan that his house looked like shit and subsequently buying him rugs and picture frames and towels for his bathroom.

Spencer is at Ryan’s side. He hears Jon close the front door. Ryan scans his house, which is cleaner than he left it … no stray clothes littered around, no beer bottles. What Spencer and Jon apparently forgot to clean or move were Ryan’s guitars. They’re all there, resting in their metal holders along the left side of the room, cradled in their stands, hanging on the still bare walls. Really, the only decorating Ryan did himself was putting up his instruments and setting up his home studio. It seems to mock him now, showing him how blatant it is that the one thing Ryan felt accomplished in, the one thing he felt he could actually do well, the only thing about him that ever felt right, is something that he can no longer do.

Ryan feels sick, a dizzy spell coming over him. He can’t breathe. He never allowed himself to think about music during his stay in the hospital, but now that he’s face to face with it, Ryan feels like he’s dying, his body twisting into failure, his ribcage imploding, collapsing in on itself.

Spencer and Jon are staring at him, gaze locked in on his favorite guitar: his epiphone, the re-mastered fretboard, fresh strings that he will never feel properly ever again, tuned perfectly by Ryan himself. He looks down at the floor after a moment, but he knows that they realized what happened.

Music is essentially a part of them all, so it makes sense to Ryan that neither Jon nor Spencer thought to take down the instruments. “Oh, Ryan, we can – we can take them down,” Spencer says. Ryan nods, remaining quiet, unable to trust his voice. Ryan keeps his eyes trained on his shoes, on the beat-up leather and the dusty soles of a life once lived.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan says. He clears his throat and glances up the hallway. “I’m – I’m tired, though. I’m going to lie down,” he tells them, his voice quiet. Ryan’s lie is obvious, but Jon and Spencer let it slide.

“Should I bring you your medication?” Spencer asks. Ryan nods, his body barely able to contain the anguish burning bright, flames licking at his bones, eating like acid at his organs until he’s hollow inside. Ryan hurries away to his bedroom. He’s spent so little time in his new home that he hadn’t even had time to set up his bed, the mattress resting on the floor. It’s made, at least – likely Jon’s doing because he’s always on Ryan’s case to keep tidy. His life used to feel so busy, so full, but now what does he have? Time. Time and one arm.

Ryan sits on the edge of his bed – well, “sit” is the wrong word. His bed is too low and he falls more than he sits, losing his balance. Ryan rests his face in his hand, blocking out the world around him, letting out all of the pain and frustration that he’s been carrying around inside him like a lead ball in the pit of his stomach. He breaks even more than he was already broken. Ryan sobs embarrassingly in a way he hasn’t cried since the day after his father’s funeral.

By the time Jon enters Ryan’s room with a glass of water, his hand closed in a fist, Ryan’s eyes are sore and damp, the palm of his hand is wet, tired. Jon comes over to the bed and sits down next to Ryan, the bed dipping under Jon’s weight, pulling Ryan into the center. Jon offers his hand out, opening it up to reveal Ryan’s pain pills resting in his palm. Ryan doesn’t hate his medication, far from it. He welcomes something to ease him of his pain. He even faces the fact that this medication could become a habit. It happens: he’s habitual and seeks comfort.

Ryan plucks the pills from Jon’s hand and swallows them down dry. Jon raises an eyebrow and offers the water to Ryan almost as an afterthought. He drinks and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, hiccupping like a child. Jon doesn’t ask if he was crying; in fact, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he curls his hand around Ryan’s side, pressing his thick fingertips against Ryan’s ribs, like he’s feeling to make sure Ryan is fully intact.

Ryan is tired, his eyes heavy. He wants to sleep forever, or at least until someone comes to him and says, “We’ve found a way to re-attach your arm, Mr. Ross.” 

***

It’s far too early when Ryan wakes up. His body aches like he’s been hit by a truck, reminding him too much of the first day he woke up from his coma, the way his body couldn’t move an inch without sparking fire through him. He doesn’t like to think of that day, how he’d woken up in a hospital bed disoriented and missing his right arm.

Ryan smells food and shifts. He’s still dressed in his clothes from yesterday, the outfit Spencer had put on him. Ryan contemplates wearing it again, but he’s hot and uncomfortable. He sits at the edge of his bed and carefully unbuttons his shirt with clumsy, graceless fingers. Ryan tries to shed himself of his shirt, shaking his shoulders. He succeeds, but it feels like too much. His future is spread out in front of him and he can’t imagine doing this day after day for years on end.

Not every aspect of Ryan’s new life is bad. It’s just hard. The difficulty is amped up so high that it feels far too easy to give up, to stop struggling and be pulled down into the depths of hopelessness, to drown. The thought of always going through so much trouble for such previously simple activities makes Ryan feel like giving up. He remembers seeing people stronger than himself at the group meeting: Sam and all his resolve, survivors who are at peace with themselves and their bodies. That’s not Ryan.

Ryan digs around in one of his drawers, mussing up all the t-shirts and button-downs that Spencer and Jon had cleaned and folded. Ryan pulls on a t-shirt, fighting and bending to make it work on his own. He glances in the mirror that’s attached to the back of his bedroom door. The skin of his arm is angry, red, and Ryan presses his fingertips to his stump, the skin hot to the touch.

There are two more pills on Ryan’s nightstand, along with another fresh glass of water. Ryan doesn’t know if Jon did this or if it was Spencer, but he’s putting his money on Spencer. He takes the pills and swallows down the water. He decides not to change his pants. Ryan pads out into the kitchen where Spencer is setting the table for breakfast. He looks tired, stressed, his hair hanging dirty and just a little too long in his eyes. Spencer looks up through his hair at Ryan and smiles.

“Hey, did you see your pills?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Are you hungry?”

The meds are effectively killing Ryan’s appetite, but at the moment, he could eat. Ryan sits at the table and picks up his fork. He feels like he’ll never get used to relying on his left hand. He stabs at his food. Spencer made pancakes, soft and mushy, soggy with syrup and butter, and Ryan tries to use his fork to break down the pancake into little pieces.

Spencer sits across from Ryan at the table. “How do you feel?”

“Sore. My meds haven’t kicked in yet.” Ryan’s piece of pancake slips from his fork and falls into the pool of syrup on the plate. Spencer isn’t eating, but he watches Ryan attempt to eat. Spencer frowns and takes a bite of his own pancake. It looks like Spencer is struggling with whether or not he needs to give Ryan assistance.

“Ryan,” Spencer starts after Ryan drops the same piece of pancake three times. “Do you want me to cut up your food for you?” Ryan can tell Spencer is uncomfortable asking, but it’s nowhere near how uncomfortable it is for Ryan to be asked, and it doesn’t stop the anger from welling up inside of Ryan.

Ryan drops his fork and it clatters loud in the silence. “Like I’m a goddamn child?”

Spencer’s face falls and he sighs, like he expected this all along. “That’s not what I meant, Ryan. I – ”

“You’ve been coddling me like I’m four years old, Spencer. You act like I can’t take care of myself!”

Ryan is lashing out, but Spencer stays quiet, stays calm and Ryan hates that. Spencer is unwilling to fight with him and that’s annoying. He just wants to be treated the same by Spencer as he’d been before the accident. He wants Spencer to tell him when he thinks Ryan’s acting like an idiot, to give him shit about his hairstyle or the outfit he’s wearing, and to be able to laugh together like they used to.

Spencer’s eyes sparkle with something. “Can you?” Spencer asks. “Take care of yourself, I mean.” He’s not being cruel, just honest.

Ryan pushes back from the table, his chair scraping the wooden floor. “You never give me a choice, Spence!”

Spencer frowns darkly, the edges of his peaceful façade leaving him, giving way to a real anger. “I want to help you, Ryan. That’s all!”

Ryan stands up and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to fight with Spencer or push him away. He doesn’t want to lose Spencer like before. “I need my best friend, not a nurse,” Ryan says, the rage simmering, his voice faltering.

“Spencer, look at me,” Ryan says. Spencer’s face pulls into a confused state, but he looks from the tabletop to Ryan expectantly. “When you look at me, what do you see?” Ryan asks. Spencer raises an eyebrow, his demeanor slipping from pissed to perplexed.

“I see you, Ryan. What else would I see?”

Ryan bites his lip, unsure about how to phrase his question. “But do you see the Ryan you grew up with or …“

“Or what?” Spencer prompts. His voice is quiet as he waits for Ryan to finish.

“Or do you see the Ryan who’s missing an arm?”

Spencer looks shocked, his eyes widening. “Ryan … what kind of question is that?”

Ryan steps closer to Spencer, who stands so the two of them are on the same level. Ryan reaches out and rests his hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “I think you’re struggling with it,” Ryan says quietly. “I think you’re having problems seeing me as a person and not someone you need to protect from everything.”

“Ryan, that’s not – ”

“Spencer, look where your hand is at right now,” Ryan tells him. Ryan looks down and Spencer’s gaze follows. They can both see Spencer’s hand curled protectively around Ryan’s right hip, steadying Ryan’s balance out. Spencer balks and removes his hand after a moment of hesitation.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t even realize I was – ”

“Hey, it’s okay. I know. But see, Spence? Your default mode is to help me. I can’t even take a step without you worrying about me toppling over.”

“Helping you has always been my default mode,” Spencer says gruffly.

Ryan watches Spencer’s hands. He’d never taken much notice of people’s hands before, but now, he watches the way Spencer’s fingers nervously slip over the denim of his jeans. “Yeah, I know. That’s the problem. You’ve already spent too much of your life saving me.”

“You want me to leave? Is that it? Leave you on your own?” Spencer’s voice is rising, growing tight. Ryan squeezes at Spencer’s shoulder, digging his fingers into Spencer’s shirt and pushing all his focus into Spencer, willing him to understand.

“Well, yes, but no. I won’t be all alone. Jon is – ”

“Jon?” Spencer interrupts. “Jon is going to be staying here?”

“Yeah, for a little while … just until I get used to the house again.” Those are words Ryan never imagined himself saying. His home is supposed to be his sanctuary, but for Ryan, his home is a whole new set of challenges.

“Why Jon?” Spencer asks. The hurt in his voice is evident. Ryan didn’t want that. He didn’t want to hurt Spencer. He’s trying to help Spencer.

“Spence, you’ve been taking care of me since we were kids, but when the split happened, you finally started taking care of yourself over me. I want us to do that again. I want you to take care of yourself over me.”

When Ryan was in the hospital, he had the same thoughts circling in his head, like marbles rolling around and around in constant circles. He knew Spencer was ignoring his own life in favor of fixing Ryan’s, but he never wanted that. He was selfish and too caught up in how hard it is living for him to release Spencer. Now that he’s home, collecting his thoughts as best he can, he can let Spencer go and live the life he did before Ryan’s accident.

“You want us to go back to how we were before the accident?” Spencer asks incredulously. “We barely talked before the accident.”

“No, no, I still want us to talk, Spencer. You’re still my best friend – more than that! You’ll always be important to me, but if I let you take care of me like I’m an invalid … if you don’t let me stumble, Spencer, how will I learn? It’s not going to help anyone.”

Spencer dips his head, a curtain of hair slipping and covering his face. Ryan’s still touching him, holding on. “It’s hard for me,” Spencer says after a few long moments. “This happening to you and all, I mean. I just want to help because I wasn’t there when it all happened. If I had been, maybe – ”

“Hey, no, what we were doing was good. Don’t feel guilty, Spencer. I want you to go and live your life, okay? I lost my arm, you didn’t. Go to Brendon’s place, make music, surf, because that’s what you were doing before the accident.”

“This is oddly deep for you,” Spencer says, laughing a little.

Ryan shrugs. “When you spend a few months in the hospital, all the bullshit in your life seems to fall away. I’m sure this is temporary and I’ll go back to spewing shit in no time.”

“You know, I’m still going to come and check on you. We’re still going to hang out,” Spencer says. It almost mirrors the conversation the two of them had the day they officially split into two parts.

“I want you to.” Ryan smiles and Spencer carefully pulls Ryan into a hug. Ryan sighs against Spencer’s shoulder. It feels good to be held again, to be touched without a fear of injuring Ryan any further than he’s already been. Ryan wraps his own arm around Spencer’s back, fingers clinging and digging into Spencer’s shirt.

“Jon will do a good job. I trust him,” Spencer says, his breath tickling the side of Ryan’s face. Ryan nods, his chin brushing Spencer’s shoulder.

“Me, too.”

It’s not awkward when Spencer leaves. They finish eating and Spencer doesn’t ask if Ryan needs help. Ryan feels like he can breathe, the weight lifted from the room. Spencer finishes before Ryan and uses that time to call Jon and tell him to come over to Ryan’s. They’re okay; there are no hard feelings.

Ryan is sitting on the couch when he realizes that his guitars are gone, hidden away from the main room. Spencer wanders into the living room from somewhere – probably the guest bedroom, considering the luggage in his hand – and Ryan smiles.

“Where did you put them?” Ryan asks. Spencer glances back at Ryan before he answers.

“In the studio. They should be fine.” Spencer sets his luggage down near the front door before he comes to Ryan, sitting on the hard wood of the coffee table in front of the couch so that he and Ryan are across from one another. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“You said you wanted me to go on living the life that I was before your accident. Does that mean … you’re cool with Brendon and me writing the new Panic album?”

While Spencer waits expectantly for an answer, Ryan runs his fingers over the smooth fabric of the couch. He won’t lie and say he doesn’t completely not give a shit about how Panic will carry on without him when he was the driving force behind the band, but he can’t play music and Brendon and Spencer can, and if they can, then they should.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “You should.” He doesn’t add how he’d be willing to give up just about anything for a chance to play again – not with Panic, but music in general.

***

It’s lunchtime by the time Jon shows up. He comes into Ryan’s house with a bright smile, a suitcase in one hand and a bag of takeout food in the other. “Good afternoon, Ryan. I come bearing gifts,” Jon says, setting the bag of food on the coffee table. Ryan hasn’t moved since Spencer left. He’s been sitting on the couch, sluggish from his medication, watching bad TV. The meds almost make him feel drunk, which is good. Alcohol fucks with his meds and he’s banned from drinking, his favorite of vices as of late.

“I brought tacos,” Jon says. He leaves his suitcase by the door, coming around to sit next to Ryan on the couch. Jon digs in the bag and pulls out their foil-wrapped food. “The meal of champions,” Jon says. Ryan smirks lazily. He’s not desperately hungry and he feels like he couldn’t move right now even if he wanted to, but he watches as Jon practically melts onto the floor, moving to the other side of the coffee table so that he’s facing Ryan again. Jon unwraps the foil around a taco and takes a bite.

Ryan watches Jon eat. By the time he’s grabbing for a second, Ryan slips off the couch and joins Jon on the floor, his legs spread long under the table, his socked feet brushing along the inside of Jon’s legs, each of Jon’s legs shielding Ryan’s.

They eat together in silence. Already, Ryan can feel the difference between Jon’s supervision and Spencer’s. Jon doesn’t watch Ryan like he might need help. He lets Ryan make a mess of their meal, eating sloppily, the crinkled foil catching what Ryan can’t.

“Spencer said that you okayed Panic’s new album,” Jon says. He crinkles up the foil into little balls and sets them in a row on the table. Ryan rubs his fingers over a napkin.

“I did.”

“Must’ve been hard,” Jon says carefully.

Ryan shrugs. It was, but it wasn’t. He made his choice to do something else, to make music different from his past, and Spencer and Brendon never really needed his permission to be a band. He understands that they want to be polite, that they don’t want to shove Ryan’s past in his face.

“He should … they should. I would want – ” Ryan stops, that constricting feeling closing like a hand around his throat, fingers digging into his chest, scraping his lungs. Ryan clears his throat, pushing down the demons. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Your instruments,” Jon begins. Ryan can feel the question and he beats Jon to the answer.

“They’re in the studio.” Ryan crumples up his napkin in his hand, squeezing and releasing. Sometimes, when he does too much at once, it strains his hand like when he used to write in his notebook on the tour bus during the first tour for Fever. His hand would ache from practicing the guitar in the back lounge for hours on end, but he’d think only of how the pain was temporary, how it’d all be worth it someday.

Jon sighs, not annoyed but tired. He lies down on his back on the floor, spreading himself out, looking like a starfish stuck on the side of an aquarium tank. Jon rucks up his t-shirt and exposes his stomach, patting his hand against it. Ryan decides he should stop watching people’s hands. He thinks he might go crazy if he continues on, losing his mind over all the things he isn’t able to do.

“What’s the plan now?” Jon asks. He doesn’t bother to look up at Ryan, lying on his back on the floor and staring up at Ryan’s vaulted ceilings.

Ryan tosses the crumpled napkin at the bag and it falls inside limply. “The plan?”

“Yeah,” Jon says. “What do we do now?”

Jon might be talking about music. He might be talking about the Young Veins and the indefinite hiatus they’ve been on since the accident. He might be asking about music or Ryan’s life, or their new living situation. Ryan still thinks it’s strange that Jon’s not back in Chicago. Why he wouldn’t be spending his time there. His skin prickles at the thought that Jon might not think that Ryan is capable of living on his own.

“I don’t know,” Ryan admits. “I’ve never had much of a life plan beyond music. I used to think I’d fall back on writing.” He recalls the messy, illegible scrawl of his name over and over again. “I guess that won’t be happening now.”

Jon pushes himself up on his elbows. “What about therapy? Are you going to keep going?”

“It feels a little like too many people want me to just accept it and move on,” Ryan says. He keeps his gaze level with the table, too afraid that if he looks at Jon, then Jon will see just how weak he is. His chest seizes up uncomfortably. “But what am I moving on to? What’s my next step?”

Jon sits up, both his elbows digging into the shag carpeting. “That never comes easy. I don’t even know what my next step is.”

Ryan feels like he’s allowed to be angry, and he’s allowed to become this jaded cynical person who can never see the rhyme or reason within the world again. Ryan knows Jon is trying, but he doesn’t think that he and Jon are on the same page, that their situations are comparable. Jon is intact, a whole person, the way he was at birth, while Ryan is missing a vital piece of himself. No one knows how that feels except the people in his support group.

“Maybe I will go back,” Ryan says. “There’s a kid there who’s got his shit together.”

Something flickers across Jon’s face, like he’s trying to see beneath the surface of Ryan’s words, like he wants to dig inside Ryan’s head and capture the thoughts that scramble around inside of it. Jon relents and smiles at Ryan, scratching at the stubble at his jaw. “Okay, okay, good.”

***

Ryan wakes up to music surrounding him. He rolls over in bed and lies there, letting his body wake up. He can hear the too-loud, slightly old, crackling, popping croak of The Kinks on vinyl being played in the living room. Ryan closes his eyes and lets the music fill his room. He lets it wash over him. Music has been missing in his home since he left the hospital, and the song is filling up an empty space that Ryan didn’t know still existed within him.

He longs to copy the guitars, fingers plucking strings, and his hands curled around smooth wood. Ryan hums along, voice deep with the clinging remains of sleep. He can hear Jon in the distance, singing, loud and a little off-key, haphazardly, the way a person does when they’re alone and half-distracted by another task. Ryan rolls again, kicking his legs against the sheets. He sort of wants to doze lazily on and off all day, listening to records and Jon singing, and not having to worry about a thing.

Ryan can’t sleep, though. His mind is already filled with the same thoughts, too heavy for his spine to carry with him. Ryan glances at the bedside table. His pills are waiting for him like a cloth to shirk off the thoughts he can’t carry, and leave them messy against the sheets. Ryan, still groggy, scrabbles for his pills. He rolls over on his back to drop them into his mouth, swallowing hastily and ignoring the fresh glass of water Jon had set out the glass dripping water on to the table because Jon forgot to set down a coaster.

Ryan hears the music from the living room cut off abruptly. It reminds him of his own life, and how the music just stopped. He hears footsteps, and then Jon is peeking into Ryan’s room. He smiles when he sees that Ryan is already awake. “Hey, you’re up!” Jon says.

“Yeah, you let me sleep pretty late. That was nice of you.”

“Yeah, well … hey, I came to tell you that Z’s here to see you. She’s waiting out in the living room.”

“Z?” Ryan asks. That’s not too strange. The Like’s tour ended just the other night and Ryan had honestly expected to see her last night. Jon nods, looking a little worried.

“She said she’s been texting you all morning and she got a little worried when you didn’t answer.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. He reaches for the cell phone that’s sitting next to the cup of water. He fumbles with the lock on it, hitting a few buttons until his messages come up. It’s true: there are five or so messages from Z, starting with asking how he is and growing steadily concerned until the point where she felt like she had to come over and check on him. “I didn’t even hear my phone,” Ryan says thoughtfully, setting his phone back down. Ryan looks at Jon. “Tell her to come see me.”

Jon nods before leaving the room. Ryan listens to him walk back to the living room; without the music playing he can hear Jon telling Z what Ryan said and Z’s murmured response. There are footsteps again, softer than Jon’s, and Ryan messes with his hair. He fixes the collar of his t-shirt. He wants to look good for her despite his cracked mirror of self-esteem.

Z knocks on the door to Ryan’s room as a polite gesture before she steps inside. She’s always breathtaking, but it’s been so long since Ryan’s seen her that she looks even better than he remembers. She’s wearing a baby doll dress with stockings and flats. She looks so young and carefree that Ryan feels ancient in comparison. Z looks tired, but she’s smiling, her face clean and void of heavy make-up.

“Ryan,” she sighs happily. “Ryan, I missed you.”

Ryan smiles at her and reaches over his lap to pat the spot on the bed next to him. Z joins him on the bed, letting their thighs press together. “I’m kind of a wreck,” Ryan says. He means appearance-wise, but he won’t correct Z if she thinks otherwise. Z reaches out and smoothes Ryan’s hair away from his face.

“You look wonderful.” She moves her hand down to cup his cheek. Her thumb brushes his jaw, and the stubble that’s beginning to form in small patches, and then she leans in to kiss him. It’s not as if Ryan imagined that she’d never kiss him or touch him again, but the intimacy is a shock to his system. It’s disruptive to the ugly view that he holds of himself in his head. Ryan barely kisses back, letting Z take the lead. He doesn’t know how to be intimate anymore because he feels so far away from life and what’s normal.

Z pulls back from him and curls her fingers into the hair at the nape of Ryan’s neck, scratching lightly. Ryan hums. She knows he likes that, a secret spot she always goes for when Ryan needs to relax.

“You didn’t text me when you got out,” she says. She’s being quiet, and if there’s one thing Ryan isn’t used to, it’s a quiet Z.

“I’m sorry.” Ryan’s hand is on his own knee. He looks at Z’s knee and thinks about how he should touch her, but he’s afraid, like his touch will burn the skin clean off her bones. “Spencer was keeping me pretty busy. I don’t really – ” Ryan shakes his head, his chest prickling. “I don’t really know how to be me at the moment.”

Z’s eyes widen. She pulls Ryan in close to her. “It’s okay. I’m not mad at you. I’m just glad to have you out of that dreadful place. I can take care of you here.” Z kisses his cheek. Ryan moves his hand to her knee, her skin warm under his palm. He’s touched her a million times in a million different ways and it strikes him so suddenly that the memories of her skin and body are erased from his right palm.

Ryan pulls away suddenly. It’s hard for him to breathe, which Z notices. “Ryan, what’s – ”

“I’m okay,” Ryan lies. “I’m okay. I just need a second. I know it sounds crazy, but – ” Ryan drops his head down between his shoulders, hunching low. “Sometimes, I forget. I never thought I would forget, but I do, and then I see and I remember and I can’t deal with it.”

Z rubs her hand down his back, polished fingers running over the knobs of his spine. “Come lay with me?” Z asks him. Even though Ryan’s been sleeping for hours, he nods and lets Z position him back on the bed. She joins him a moment later. Her shoes are still on and her body is curled in towards him. Ryan is relived that Z can still love him like this, that she can still see a beauty within him that Ryan isn’t able to find himself.

Z must be tired from touring and her body is still playing catch-up to the rest of her because she falls asleep fast. Her lashes fan against her cheeks and her body is warm and solid next to Ryan. He thinks about what Z said, how she wants to take care of him. He’s reminded of Spencer. It’s not exactly the same, but he can’t imagine Z wanting to spend the rest of her life playing handmaid to Ryan. No one should have to fall into that role.

Ryan doesn’t sleep when Z does. He closes his eyes and listens to the simultaneous sounds of Z’s even breathing and Jon shuffling around out in the living room. Ryan lies in his bed with Z, and he’s lost in his own thoughts. He rolls them over in his mind again and again until he thinks he has a semblance of an idea of what he wants to do. Z wakes up, which pulls Ryan from his thoughts. She shifts against him, her warm stocking covered legs tangled with his. Z stretches, her body arching up from the bed in an all-too-familiar way. She turns towards Ryan and blinks her huge eyes at him when she sees him looking back at her.

“You’re awake,” she says softly, her voice thick.

“I never slept.”

“But,” Z says before she yawns despite herself, covering her mouth with her hand. She rolls over to check the clock on Ryan’s bedside. “But it’s been an hour.”

Ryan shrugs. “I wanted you to rest. I’m pretty used to lying in bed doing nothing.” Ryan never thought he would be. The silence and the stillness creeping in on him, but after all those nights spent in the hospital confined to a room and a bed it doesn’t feel so scary anymore.

Z smiles and rests her head on his chest. Ryan brings his hand up to pet at her hair. It’s awkward and his hand twitches a little painfully, like it isn’t used to bearing the weight of every task on its own. Ryan sort of wishes they could stay like this, together in solitary, in his bedroom, tangled, but Z has obligations and expectations that Ryan no longer has.

“Elizabeth,” Ryan says. He can feel when Z scrunches her face. Only her parents ever bother to call her Elizabeth. “You remember what you said? How you want to take care of me?”

Z sits herself up and looks down at him. “Of course.”

“What about The Like?” Ryan asks her.

“Well, we’d take a break. It’s not a big deal. I mean, the girls would understand. They do understand. I can take a break to take care of you. I could still write, you know, and then when the time is right, I could tour again.”

It sounds easy when Z says it. Ryan closes his eyes and imagines that sort of life for the two of them.

“When will the time be right?” Ryan questions.

Z looks at him, studying his face and his words. He can catch the first flicker of something in her eyes. “When you’re better.”

“What if I’m never better?”

“Ryan,” Z frowns. “You could have a little hope.” Ryan closes his eyes and feels Z’s hand touch his face and then sweeps to his jaw. Her delicate fingers trail up to his cheekbones, dancing across his forehead. “If you need time, I’ll wait. There are more important things to life than playing music, Ryan.”

Z sounds so sure, but Ryan isn’t. To him, there never really was much more to his life. Music was the end-all-be-all, and if he didn’t do it with Panic, then he would do it with the Young Veins. He never worried because even if he ended up all alone there was always music. Music was the only form of consistency in his life.

Ryan opens his eyes and looks up at Z. He feels so removed and disconnected that he can’t grasp the idea that he was ever with her at all. He always thought Z settled for him, but now she feels legions out of his league.

“Music is what you do and you’re too talented to waste your time here with me, writing when you catch a minute between taking care of me,” Ryan says. “I don’t want you to sacrifice that for me.”

A frown takes over Z’s soft features. “So you don’t want me to take care of you?” she asks, sounding a little put out.

“I want you to be happy. I want you to be able to do what you want without anyone holding you back.”

“You mean without you holding me back? Ryan, I don’t think like that! I – ”

Ryan sits up. It’s awkward and hard to do, and Z’s hand twitches like she wants to help him.

“Z, listen to me. I don’t want you to stay here and then wake up and find that five years have passed and we’re still stuck like this, and you don’t make music and you don’t go places … I don’t want you to wake up one day and resent me for a life you never got to live. You’ve got to get out while you can.” Ryan’s voice breaks while he talks. Despite spending an hour mulling over this decision, it’s not any easier for Ryan to put into action.

Z sucks in a sharp breath. “Are you … are you really trying to breaking up with me right now?” she asks, her voice breaking, too. Maybe it’s because she’s upset or still needs to rest her vocal chords from touring so much. She closes her eyes and gets on her knees, putting her dainty hands on Ryan’s shoulders. “Listen to me, Ryan. Don’t tell me what I can’t handle. Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

“You don’t get it,” Ryan says, but he’s smiling despite himself at how stubborn Z is.

“Get what?” She sounds angry. This is deteriorating fast, but it’s something Ryan can’t hide from to avoid confrontation.

“Z, I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know how to be myself, so how do you expect me to know how to be someone’s boyfriend?” Z’s fingers dig into Ryan’s shoulders painfully, but Ryan doesn’t push her away or tell her to stop. “I’m not a smart guy, Z. I make shitty decisions. This shit, though, has given me a clearer idea of what living really means and that, if I can’t do it, then I sure as fuck don’t want to drag other people to a stop with me. You deserve better than that.”

“What about the people who want to stay with you regardless of what happens?”

Ryan tips his head up. He and Z look at each other, and Ryan doesn’t think about what she’s asking him because he already has. He’s spent nights lying awake in the hospital, thinking up the endings to a thousand different scenarios.

“Then you end up hating me.”

“And what if I hate you now?”

“Do you?” Ryan asks. His chest hurts and it has nothing to do with his arm or his meds and everything to do with letting go of someone he really does love. He doesn’t want Z to hate him, but he had an idea that, from the beginning, she would end up hating him anyway. That’s usually his default for relationships.

Z tears up even though he really didn’t want to make her cry. He slides his hand up her arm and touches her face, wiping away the tears as best as he can. Z curls around him and presses her mouth to his ear.

“No, I really don’t. That’s the problem.”

Ryan closes his arm around her. It’s hard to balance this way, to keep himself up with no arms and Z bearing her weight on him. He spreads his hand out on her dress-covered back and holds her for as long as she wants, even when it hurts.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan whispers to her. “I’m doing what I think is right. I really do love you, but I can’t – ”

Z cries and nods and kisses his cheek. “I’m still going to check on you. You’re not getting rid of me permanently.”

Ryan smiles against her neck. “I’m glad. I don’t want that.”

Z pulls back and touches Ryan’s face before she kisses him deeply and pulls away from him. She climbs off his bed and wipes at her eyes. She leaves with a sad smile and a “Be well, Ryan.” She slips from his room, from his fingers, and from his home. Ryan lies back down on the bed and listens to Z say something to Jon before his front door opens and closes again. Ryan knows he’ll see her again – some of her things are still at his place and she’ll surely be back to get them.

Ryan waits. Finally, there are footsteps, and Jon comes into the room. He doesn’t sit down, leaning instead against the slice of wall next to the door. Jon doesn’t ask about what happened with Z, but Ryan thinks he can feel it in the air, and he can see it in the way Ryan peers up at him, telling him what happened without speaking.

“Are you hungry?” Jon asks.

“More tacos?” Ryan asks as he sits himself up. His body is sore from the combination of sleeping too long and lying with Z, and it feels good when he stands and stretches.

“I was thinking sandwiches, but tacos can be arranged.”

“Sandwiches,” Ryan decides, and Jon nods and turns to lead the way out of the room. 

***

The next day, Ryan goes to group therapy. Jon takes him in Ryan’s own car and they listen to a mix of Ryan’s favorite songs. Jon drives slow and careful down the streets of Echo Park. It’s the first time Ryan’s been in the car with just he and Jon. He wonders if Jon ever feels it too, that mad rush of fear so powerful that it’s like he’s been forced back in time, back to the night of the accident, made to live through it again and again.

Someone behind Jon is displeased with how slow he’s driving, so they honk harshly holding down the horn for too long before they pass Jon with a raised middle finger and a burst of swears. The noise startles Ryan and he has to ask Jon to roll down the passenger side window so that he can catch his breath. Jon switches between watching Ryan and driving. Ryan would really like to tell him to keep his eyes on the road before he causes an accident and Ryan loses his other fucking arm.

“Jon, watch the road,” Ryan snaps, his head practically out the window looking like a dog who loves car rides.

“Sorry,” Jon says. “I know how you feel. I just – I feel like it could happen all over again.”

Ryan hums something noncommittal as he gulps down air. He’d do anything to feel like he’s not pinned down on the side of the road.

“Do you remember that night?” Jon asks. Ryan can almost feel him balk after his own question. “Stupid question! Of course you remember it. It’s just that we never talked about it? I guess I wanted to know what happened.”

“You were there,” Ryan says as he settles back down in his seat, his fingers playing with the thick strap of the seatbelt. He remembers the feeling of cloth digging into his chest and neck.

“Yeah,” Jon nods, his heavy curls bouncing with the movement and falling into his eyes before he blows them away. “But I don’t remember much of anything, just bits and pieces. I remember waking up when the van hit the car, but beyond that, I – ”

Ryan shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he interrupts. He feels on edge and doesn’t want to feel like that before he goes to therapy. Something about it makes him feel like he really does need the place. Jon gives Ryan a sidelong glance and nods.

“Okay,” he says quick but calm letting the subject drop. They drive the rest of the way in silence. Only when they park in the parking lot does Jon bother to talk again. “Do you want me to go inside with you?”

“Maybe,” Ryan starts. “Maybe just help me find the place.”

Jon nods again and gets out of the car, not asking if Ryan needs help opening his door or getting out. Ryan is grateful for that, and manages to achieve the act on his own. Jon leads him inside, and while Ryan stands behind him Jon asks the woman at the front desk of the waiting room they’re standing in where they can find the support group. Once she points them in the correct direction, they head towards the elevators.

“What time should I come back to get you?” Jon asks. He hits the elevator button for the second floor and Ryan thinks. He doesn’t know what time that the meeting ends and feels bad that Jon’s going to have to wait around for him. For this to work, though, and for Ryan to open up he needs to do it with strangers. Like with his music, no one who knows him, but he has all his feelings and emotions and thoughts spread out in readable three-minute interludes.

“The meeting lasts an hour, I think,” Ryan says. “You can come back then.”

Jon nods. “I will.” He sounds a little quiet, like he’s surprised he’s being banned from the therapy meeting, and Ryan recalls Spencer telling him that it was all about having a support system to help you through your recovery. Asking Jon not to come feels a lot like defying the point of the group, but Ryan’s never been very good at sticking with what he should be doing.

They emerge from the elevators and Jon leads Ryan down the hallway to the room where his group is meeting. It’s the same as last time. Ryan sees Sam sitting in the same seat he had been during Ryan’s first meeting. Sam looks over his shoulder and spots Ryan, smiling and waving, ushering Ryan to sit next to him. Ryan glances back at Jon before he heads into the room and sits next to the little boy.

“You came back!” Sam says brightly. Ryan nods as he sits down.

“I did come back.” Ryan says. Sam smiles at him and Ryan smiles back.

The meeting begins. Ryan tries to listen and drink in the stories of inspiration: the girl who just learned to drive again, the guy who’s getting married next month. Ryan knows he should strive to be like them, but he feels a disconnect between himself and them, like he’ll never be grouped in with two-armed people or one-armed people, and that he’ll forever be stuck in a nasty medium.

The circle of the group rounds to Ryan. Their leader, Mark, is looking at Ryan and asking him if he wants to talk about what’s been happening.

“Well,” Ryan says. “I just broke up with my long-term girlfriend yesterday.”

“How did that happen?” Mark asks, his head tilting slightly. He flips a page in his notebook before he pulls a pen from behind his ear and jots something down.

“She came to see me and I broke up with her.”

“So it wasn’t mutual?”

“No, she didn’t want to break up. I told her I couldn’t be in a relationship anymore because I didn’t know how to be in one … I don’t know who I am.” Ryan hears a few mutters surface around the room. Some sound like agreement and others sound like they think Ryan is an idiot for throwing a relationship away.

Mark nods and writes and then looks at Ryan, his eyes seeming to go past him. “You don’t think that was a little impulsive?” He asks. “You just got out of the hospital didn’t you? And you’re already making drastic decisions.”

Ryan scowls. “I don’t think it was impulsive. I put a lot of thought into it.”

Mark hums and scans the notebook resting on his knee. “Didn’t you have a friend that came to group with you last time? The note from your doctor said you were released to the custody of … ” Mark trails off as tucks the pen back behind his ear and then flips a page in his notebook. Ryan is envious of the ease with which Mark operates with one hand. “Spencer Smith? How’s that going?”

“I told him I didn’t want him to live with me or take care of me.”

“And what happened?”

“He listened and left.”

“So you’re on your own? How did you get here today?”

“My friend Jon is staying with me. He was – he was in the accident, too, but he’s alright. I mean, he had a concussion, but nothing permanent.”

“So you’re fine with Jon staying with you, but not Spencer?” Mark asks. Ryan huffs. He didn’t know that group would be like this, questions turned on him and all eyes waiting for his response. He feels Sam shift next to him and Ryan sighs.

“That’s not it. I just don’t want to be a burden. Spencer would have forgone his own life to take care of me. Z would have resented me if I made her stay with me.”

“What about Jon? You don’t think he’ll resent you or put his own life to the wayside?”

“Jon has a life in Chicago. He’ll be going back there soon.” Jon never said that and Ryan doesn’t know when he’s going to leave, but it’s bound to be not too far off. Mark writes more notes on Ryan. Ryan feels like he exposed too much, like he opened something that he can no longer close, a Pandora’s box inside his chest.

“It sounds like you’re pushing everyone away,” Mark says casually.

Ryan shrugs. “I’m not. I’m letting people go and live their lives.”

“Sometimes Ryan,” Mark begins. He pulls the pen back from behind his ear and rolls it between his thumb and index finger, “in my experience I find that some patients once they leave the hospital decide to make what could be considered ‘rash decisions’ because they feel like they have no control over their lives, and expelling people from their personal circles gives them back some of that control.  


“You think I’m doing that?” Ryan asks. He doesn’t deny it outright. He does feel out of control and powerless, but he still has his reasons for letting Spencer and Z go.

“Perhaps,” Mark says. “Do you feel like you are trying to push everyone away so that you can leave them before they leave you?”

“I’m not pushing. I’m saving them. I told you I don’t want to be a burden.”

“The healing process is about help, Ryan,” a woman, a five-year amputee, says. She smiles at Ryan a little sadly, like she sees the huge error they all think Ryan has made. “You don’t have to do it alone. No one expects you to.”

Ryan looks at his hand. He can’t even sit like he usually does, like his body is trained to do. He usually sits and pulls his knee up, hooking both his hands around it, but now he can’t. He never noticed it up to this point, but now that he has it won’t leave his mind. Even the simplest actions have been stripped from him.

“So now you’re waiting for this ‘Jon’ to leave you?” Mark asks. “What happens when he does?”

“I do what I always do,” Ryan says. “I do it alone.”

“This isn’t like before. How do you know you can do it on your own? What have you done on your own since the amputation? Have you cooked for yourself? Washed yourself? Dressed yourself? Before you push people out of your life, you must ask yourself, Ryan: ‘Can I do this on my own?’”

“Aren’t you supposed to be helping me? This is the worst group I’ve ever been in.”

“We’re all here for you, Ryan,” Mark says, ignoring Ryan’s dig. Some of the others don’t, and they throw dirty looks at Ryan. “Anger is natural.”

The calm in Mark’s voice sets a fire of anger burning bright in Ryan’s chest. Ryan can do what he wants. He can push everyone out and then die on his own if he wants to because it’s his life to throw away. Mark doesn’t know him – none of these people do. Ryan feels like a fool for ever thinking this would work for him. He frowns. He’s disappointed and embarrassed, and wounded. He stands up abruptly, knocking over his metal folding chair in the process. The group startles. Ryan leaves his chair lying down, unable or unwilling to try and pick it up on his own. He heads out the door despite it only being half-an-hour into group. Jon won’t be back for him yet, but he’ll wait.

Ryan slips out the door and no one stops him. It makes him wonder if his response is not that unusual. Ryan feels someone out in the hall with him and is surprised when he looks up to see Jon standing there leaning against the wall opposite the group’s door. He has a white foam cup of what is probably coffee in his hand, and he arches an eyebrow as he looks down the hall at the clock hanging there.

“What are you doing? Your meeting isn’t over yet.”

“You never left?” Ryan asks instead of answering Jon.

Jon shakes his head. “I’ve got nowhere else to be and I wanted to be here in case you needed me.”

For the first time, the anger ebbs away, leaving Ryan’s insides to quiver with a truth that he can only now face. He does need someone – and that someone is Jon.

“I want to leave,” Ryan says.

Jon’s eyes are calm. He sips at his coffee before he pushes away from the wall. “Okay,” he says simply. He doesn’t ask what happened – he had to have heard the commotion of Ryan’s chair falling over; maybe he even heard the entirety of Ryan and Mark’s conversation, seeing as how the door to the group wasn’t closed all the way. Jon rests his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and presses his fingers into Ryan’s skin, rubbing a little, like he knows there’s tension building up inside of him.

“Did you hear anything?” Ryan asks Jon once they reach the parking lot.

“Hear what now?” Jon asks. He sounds confused, like he’d been thinking of something and didn’t really hear Ryan’s question. The sun is warm and bright and hot on Ryan’s back. He squints across the top of his own car at Jon before he opens the door.

“What we were talking about in the meeting – did you hear what I was talking about?”

“Oh,” Jon says, his face blank, neither guilty nor innocent. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Ryan ambles into the car and carefully shuts the door. Jon shrugs and starts the car.

“You were angry. I know that much.”

Ryan looks at the dash, at the world outside the windshield. “I am angry,” he admits.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Jon says. “Are you hungry? You want to grab some lunch?”

“I could eat, yeah.”

“Cool. We’ll go to that restaurant we went to when we were recording! They had those fries you liked, remember? We can get an outdoor table, one with some shade.”

“Oh, Jon, I – ” A panic begins to climb up the back of Ryan’s throat. He knows the restaurant, he loves that place, but the idea of being in public while visibly missing a piece of him, all eyes trained on him like in group only a million times worse … he can’t handle it. He can’t handle the murmurs and whispers and looks like he used to. It’s different to be whispered about because you look feminine or because you’re wearing make-up, but it’s completely different to be whispered about because your body is injured. “I don’t think I can.”

Jon glances at him and gives up easily, but Ryan sees a hint of annoyance. It’s not something Jon means to be there, but it’s something that exists all the same. “Take-out is good, too. You up for Chinese?”

Eating is frustrating. It’s easy, but there are times when the food slops down Ryan’s chin. His instinct is to bring his right hand up and wipe away the excess food, but the remainder of his right arm just twitches instead. It’s frustrating breaking your body out of a routine it’s known for twenty-four years.

“I’m a mess,” Ryan says. He and Jon are eating on the floor again, sitting across from each other at the coffee table. Ryan’s TV is on, but neither of them are paying much attention. His fingers are sticky with sauce and the front of his shirt is covered in loose rice and noodles. “I think a shower is in order.”

Ryan closes the top of his take-out box and manages to get himself up without making more of a mess around the living room. Jon swallows a bite of his rice and looks like he thinks he should help.

“If I need you, I’ll call?” Ryan suggests. Jon nods and continues eating.

In the hospital, Ryan was washed up with sponges and cloths. This time is his first real time in the shower since his accident. Ryan peels off his clothes – he’s stopped wearing his button-downs and resorted back to cycling through the t-shirts he owns – and leaves them in a pile on the floor. He avoids the mirror, avoids looking at his rail-thin body, ugly, scarred, and broken, and he turns on the water.

Ryan stands under the warm jet of water. The stream is a little too powerful, and it stings at the skin of his stump. He runs his good hand along the damp wall of the shower, reminding himself that he can keep his balance, that he’s weighted to the world.

Ryan wets his hair under the water, the air taken from him like he’s drowning. The shampoo bottle is thick and slips from Ryan’s hand when he tries to grab it, clattering heavy and loud to the bottom of the tub. Ryan ducks down and tries again, but he can’t maneuver the bottle to get the shampoo out and on to his head. He swears when the bottle slips and hits him in the head before it falls to the tub and lands on his foot. “Fuck me,” Ryan growls, blinking through the pain and water. He feels pathetic and contemplates just washing his hair with a bar of soap. Finally, Ryan’s need to feel clean outweighs his pride and he calls for Jon.

Jon comes quickly into the bathroom. “Ryan?” Jon asks. He sounds worried, like he heard the clamor in the bathroom and thought Ryan fell. “Are you okay? I heard – ” Ryan can see Jon reaching for the shower curtain and panics.

“I’m fine! I just … I need you to wash my hair. Is that … is that cool?” Ryan asks, balking at his own words. Nothing about this is cool.

“Sure, man. It’s not a big deal.”

Ryan picks up the shampoo bottle and sets it on the rim of the tub before he grabs the shower curtain and wraps it around himself successfully hiding his body from Jon. Ryan bends himself forward so Jon can get at his head. Jon squirts shampoo into his hand with ease and then, with careful hands, spreads the shampoo into Ryan’s hair. Ryan relaxes despite hanging halfway out the tub. Jon’s fingers feel nice against his scalp, calluses from playing guitar catching on Ryan’s tangled curls. Ryan’s hand tightens in the shower curtain. His body is hot with shame that he has to have his friend do this for him, that he’s losing another piece of independence that he doesn’t know how to reclaim, but he relents and lets Jon take care of him.

Jon pushes Ryan’s hair back and keeps the soap from getting in his eyes. Ryan is so relaxed by the end of it that he misses the touch the second Jon’s hands leave his scalp. “Rinse,” Jon says. Ryan nods and sinks back into the stream of water, the curtain falling back into place, turning Jon into a silhouette. The shampoo washes away. Ryan can hear Jon ask, “Do you need me to wash your body?”

“I … no, I think I got it,” Ryan says.

“Okay. I’m going to wash my hands off, alright?” Jon says. Ryan pulls the curtain around himself as Jon sticks his hands inside the shower, washing away the foam. “Will you need help getting out?” Jon asks. Ryan shakes his head before he rolls his eyes – Jon can’t see him.

“No, I can manage it. If I fall, I’m sure you’ll hear me,” Ryan says. He tries for joking, but Jon doesn’t laugh. Ryan sighs wetly. “I’ll be fine.” Jon leaves and Ryan manages just fine to rub the bar of soap across his body, desperately hoping he keeps a handle on it. Afterward, Ryan feels almost new – he feels refreshed, at least, sparkling for a moment. He turns off the shower on his own and steps out carefully, one hand wrapped around the shower rod running across the top so he doesn’t lose his balance.

Ryan’s towel is hanging over the rack. He drips on the floor towel that Jon must’ve put down before he left the bathroom. Ryan slips the towel from off the rack and carefully attempts to wrap it around his waist. It’s difficult. Ryan’s fingers strain as he twists the towel in a desperate effort for it to stay around his narrow hips. He knows he could call for Jon, but he won’t. It’s too much to ask.

The towel manages to stay on. Ryan pads through the hallway and into his room, his feet leaving damp, waterlogged footsteps behind him. Ryan’s room is cold and makes his skin prickle, gooseflesh erupting on his skin. He sits on his bed and balks at the idea of getting dressed. Ryan’s loose-limbed from the shower and crawls to the head of his bed, lying curled in on his side, droplets of water running from his wet hair, down his shoulders and back. Ryan closes his eyes, his hand pushed between his knees. Sometime later – it might be a few seconds or a handful of minutes – Ryan hears footsteps. He can feel Jon standing at the foot of his bed.

“You alright?” Jon asks. A shiver runs through Ryan’s body. He nods against the pillow. Jon doesn’t leave like Ryan thinks he might. He moves. Ryan feels him sit near his feet. “You should get dressed. You look cold.” Ryan is tense. He’s exposed and naked save for a towel; he doesn’t want Jon to see him naked. It’s not that Jon hasn’t seen him naked before, but that was just glimpses in changing rooms or between showers, not now when Ryan is so vulnerable and ugly, not when his body is a wreck.

Ryan rolls over on his back and sits up, his hand smoothing down his leg. “Don’t look at me,” Ryan says quietly.

Jon raises his eyebrow. “I’ve seen you before, but don’t worry. I won’t watch you.”

“Not because I’m embarrassed,” Ryan says. “It’s because I don’t want you to see.”

“What? Your arm? Ryan, you know I don’t care about that. I – ”

“You don’t you know what it feels like, Jon,” Ryan says. He looks up to meet Jon’s eyes. “You don’t know what I feel like. I’m so young, but my body has failed me. I’m limited and it’s ugly –this wreck of an arm of mine.”

Jon reaches out with a shaking hand. Ryan can tell he’s reaching towards Ryan’s bad arm. Ryan jerks backwards. His left hand shoots out, catching Jon’s wrist, stopping him from touching. It’s awkward. Ryan leans forward to keep a hold on Jon.

“You can’t just … don’t do that,” Ryan says, low and quiet.

Jon shakes Ryan loose and draws his hand back. “I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know that I’d never think you were ugly. Your body has changed, but you’re still you. You’re still Ryan – in my eyes, you are.”

Ryan shivers again. He’s cold now and feels less than human sitting here in his bed with damp hair, hunched and naked and shivering in front of Jon. Ryan looks down at his hand and feels Jon stand up. Ryan watches through his lashes as Jon pulls off the t-shirt he’s wearing.

“We need to get you a better wardrobe,” Jon says as he hands the shirt to Ryan. “You know that you don’t have many t-shirts, right?”

That’s true. Ryan’s more comfortable clothes have been lost to time. He’s sure he’s given them to Brendon or even Spencer from time to time. Jon holds his shirt open and Ryan lets Jon help him put the shirt on. The shirt is still warm from when Jon had been wearing it. It’s soft, worn with time, one of Jon’s favorites, and it smells like him. Jon’s shirt pools around Ryan, but Ryan feels better already.

Jon stands there shirtless. Ryan takes a moment to appraise his body: his wide shoulders, his strong and fully-functioning arms, his fingers curled at his sides. Ryan feels like he can appreciate the human body, really see it now, and he sees Jon. Ryan is envious of the strength in Jon’s body, but a part of him also sees a beauty there that he’s never fully noticed before.

Jon gets Ryan a pair of boxers and sets them on the bed before he turns around so Ryan can put them on himself. Ryan drops the towel and slides his legs through the fabric.

“Sometimes … ” Ryan begins. He watches Jon’s head rise. “I can feel it.”

“Your arm?” Jon asks, still facing away from Ryan.

“Yeah. You can turn around now.” Jon turns around and Ryan is lying in his bed again, his back against the wall. He feels a little like a child, like he used to when he was sick and would wear pajamas that were too big for him and his dad would pay extra attention to him. “I can feel my arm even though it’s gone. When I’m lying there, I feel the weight of my right arm, like if I just tried hard enough, I could lift it up and it’d be back again.”

“Phantom limb syndrome,” Jon says. Ryan tilts his head and Jon shrugs. “I’ve been Googling.”

“Sometimes, it hurts, too. It aches so bad that I feel like it will never stop.”

“This is the first time you’ve ever talked to me about your arm,” Jon says. He actually sounds happy about it. Ryan lies down fully, feeling drained from the shower and the day. He feels the bed dip on the opposite side and the warmth radiating from Jon’s naked torso.

“I don’t talk about it because I already feel weak. I don’t want to sound weak, too.” Ryan closes his eyes.

Ryan feels Jon turn, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He can feel the soft exhale of Jon’s breath hitting his cheek. “It’s okay to open up to your friends. We won’t judge you, Ryan.”

“Hard to even know who my friends are these days.”

“How about we go see Brendon and Spencer tomorrow? Spencer will want to know you’re still alive.”

“Okay,” Ryan says. They lapse into silence. Ryan can feel Jon breathing steadily next to him and can smell Jon’s shirt. He falls asleep easier and with more peace than he has since he’s gotten home from the hospital. Ryan wakes up sometime late into the night, around three or four in the morning, and Jon is still in his bed. Ryan turns his head and watches Jon sleep, his mouth slightly parted and his lashes long against his cheeks. He sometimes forgets how much energy staying with him must take from Jon.

Ryan sighs. He wishes he could help himself more, lessen the load so he can stop feeling like a burden to the people around him. Ryan settles into the bed and watches Jon sleep until he finally drifts off again. 

***

Two and a half weeks pass by and Jon is still staying with Ryan. It’s not as if Ryan expected Jon to leave after a week, but he expected Jon to make some mention about Chicago or call Cassie, and none of it is happening. Ryan thought that, even when Jon said he wanted to stay with him, he’d fly back and forth between Chicago and L.A., switching off those weeks with Spencer. As it were, Jon doesn’t make phone calls or book tickets. He’s been in L.A. since Ryan was flown here and placed in the hospital. Usually, the only time Ryan can get Jon to spend so much time out of Chicago is when they’re touring or recording. It should be nice, but it only solidifies the thought that Jon is only staying with him out of pity, that no one wants to leave Ryan on his own, that Ryan rebuffed Spencer’s offer of help so now Jon is stuck here.

Ryan has managed to settle himself into his new life somewhat, carving out the routines that will become a foundation for the rest of his life, but even those routines revolve around Jon. He hasn’t cooked for himself since the accident – he was never one for cooking, anyway, so it’s not a huge change, but he could at least make sandwiches and now he can’t even do that. Jon bought him t-shirts and clothing with looser fabrics that make it easier for Ryan to get dressed on his own, though Ryan often sleeps in the t-shirt Jon had given him after his first post-accident shower. Something about it is comforting, drawing memories of the warm, peaceful sleep Ryan had that night.

Jon also bought Ryan a pump for his shampoo bottle so he can wash his hair on his own. It feels very much like Jon is giving Ryan the tools to keep living on his own. There are still gaps and empty places that Ryan needs to fill whether it’s on his own or not. Ryan is attending his group meetings again. After being convinced by Jon that Ryan’s storming out was neither the first for the group or the last they would have, Ryan returned sheepishly and spent most of the time of his first meeting back with his head bowed, trying to drink in the information the group was giving him.

Today, though, the two of them are going to Brendon’s place for dinner, a tradition they’ve struck up since Ryan’s release from the hospital: dinner at Brendon’s on Sundays. When they arrive at Brendon’s home, there’s an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway behind Brendon and Spencer’s. Ryan raises his eyebrow at Jon as they get out of Ryan’s car.

“You think they’re busy?” Ryan asks.

Jon pockets his cell phone and shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” Jon says. “I’ve been texting Brendon all day and he never said anything.” They don’t knock because they’re aware that they’re coming. Jon holds the door open and lets Ryan pass through before he follows after.

Spencer and Brendon are seated at the kitchen table. Brendon smiles when he sees Jon and Ryan standing in the foyer. Spencer turns, too, and smiles. That’s when Ryan notices that there’s a third man seated at the table. He turns to look at Ryan and Jon, but the man is no one that Ryan recognizes. The man’s light eyes flicker over Jon and Ryan. He has wild, dark hair, and he’s handsome, but what Ryan notices the most is that the guy is holding one of Brendon’s guitars.

The room stalls into silence as glances pass between Ryan and Jon, Brendon and Spencer, and the mystery man. “Ryan,” Spencer says. “Jon, this is our friend, Dallon.”

Dallon sets Brendon’s guitar down against the leg of the table and stands, rubbing his palms against his jeans before approaching Ryan and Jon.

“Hi,” Dallon says. He uses his wrong hand to shake Ryan’s and flushes, embarrassed, before offering the correct hand. “Really nice to meet you.” He sounds genuine, sincere in his greeting. He’s smiling as he switches from Ryan to Jon. “I’m a big fan.”

Brendon looks on nervously from the table, but he’s smiling, too. Spencer watches, but his face is tense. Ryan realizes quite suddenly, given away by the expression on Spencer’s face and the guitar, that Dallon must be auditioning for the band, for Panic.

Hell, maybe he already got the part – maybe Dallon was awarded Ryan’s position right before he and Jon walked in the room. It stings to think about, but it doesn’t hurt. Ryan told them to carry on, to keep the band going, and that’s what they’re doing. What hurts is Dallon seeing him. Dallon is the only person outside of Ryan’s band – his ex-girlfriend, his doctors, and his group members have seen Ryan this way. Now Dallon comes in and gets to see Ryan exposed, more open than he’s ever wanted to share with a stranger. He feels whatever comfort he had been feeling in his body, in his bones, the confidence instilled in him by his group and Jon, all evaporate.

Jon’s hand slides to Ryan’s shoulder, cupping and squeezing like he knows how afraid Ryan feels right now, just how naked and open he is in this moment. “Yeah, nice to meet you, too,” Jon says casually.

Dallon stands awkwardly. The room is silent. “We’re thinking of ordering out for dinner,” Brendon offers from the table in an effort to break the sudden tension filling up the room like water in a small space. “We’ve been a little too busy today to cook.”

Definitely an audition, Ryan is sure now.

“Does pizza sound good?” Brendon asks. Ryan half-expects Dallon to answer for all of them. Ryan looks at the floor while Jon nods, his hand still an anchor on Ryan’s shoulder.

Dallon’s eyes flicker around the room. “I should be going,” he says. Brendon’s eyes slide to Dallon and he nods small, the light diminishing from his face. To Ryan’s surprise, Brendon stands and hugs Dallon when Dallon goes to shrug on his jacket and collect his keys from the wooden surface of the table. The hug is brief, and Brendon is a touchy person by nature so it’s not entirely surprising, but it’s shock to Ryan’s system all the same, seeing a stranger so intimate already with one of his friends.

“I’ll tweet you those Youtube links later,” Dallon says to Brendon before he waves at Spencer, who smiles a real Spencer Smith smile at Dallon before he leaves.

The silence lingers even after Dallon leaves. Brendon twitches in his seat before he goes to order some pizza, Jon joining him. Ryan sits at the table next to Spencer and clears his throat, drawing Spencer’s attention to him.

“He’s in the band?” Ryan asks.

Spencer shakes his head. “I’m sorry. He was – we were just … we lost track of time.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Dallon Weekes. He’s in the Brobecks.”

“Never heard of it,” Ryan says with more venom than he intended. “He plays guitar?”

“And bass.”

“Well, isn’t he talented?” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. “So he’s in the band?”

“No, Ryan,” Spencer says, his voice clear and serious. “He auditioned but we’re not – we haven’t – he’s not in Panic, Ryan. Brendon and I just – he was just playing with us a little.”

Ryan doesn’t know whether or not he has the right to be upset. He doesn’t want to talk about music in the first place, the subject still a sore and open wound to him. Even if he wanted to come back (which he doesn’t; he didn’t suddenly stop feeling the urge to make the kind of music he wants), he couldn’t. He can’t play anymore. It’s not like Ryan never stopped to think that Spencer and Brendon would fill in the spaces just as Ryan and Jon did when they brought in the Nicks and Andy, but the difference here is that Brendon and Spencer never had to see it happening.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ryan decides. He doesn’t. He can feel his chest hardening, a husk covering his heart. Music: past, present, and future – he’s not ready to talk about it.

“Okay,” Spencer nods. They sit together in silence. Ryan can hear Brendon ordering on the phone and Jon piping in to say what toppings they want.

Dinner is uncomfortable. Last time, it was uncomfortable because of Ryan’s limitations, because everyone was waiting to see if Ryan could do this on his own, but now it’s because the past versions of Panic have somehow caught up with the current versions. There’s a collision, an impossible level of space and time and the ghosts of happier memories and old hurts pooling together around them until the conversation is lacking in anything but the quiet noise of them eating and the occasional murmuring comment of something that has to do with nothing.

Ryan’s trying to catch Jon’s eyes, to see if he can tell if Jon’s feeling the same. He wants to gauge whether or not this feeling of hurt is an overreaction. Jon is talking to Brendon, though, and he doesn’t seem angry, not really, though Jon’s anger is never obvious, more quiet and sneaking in under the surface.

Ryan and Jon don’t stay long once the pizza is gone. Brendon and Spencer don’t protest, either, and it feels a lot like the end of Panic and the beginning of the split. It’s night out when Jon and Ryan go back to Ryan’s home, the silence and tension of the dinner clinging to them like fog or a layer of grime they can’t wash away.

“Did you know?” Ryan asks. Jon glances at him, eyebrow raised.

“Did I know what?”

“About that guy? Dallon … or whatever?”

“Oh,” Jon says quietly. “Well, Brendon mentioned to me that they were looking for touring musicians.”

“So you did know.” Ryan sounds like he’s accusing Jon, but he doesn’t want to sound like that. Jon didn’t willingly expose him to Dallon on purpose – at least, Ryan hopes he didn’t.

“Did I know Dallon was going to be there tonight? No. Brendon told me they were doing auditions earlier in the day and that it dragged on too long. They didn’t mean for it to happen, either.”

“Aren’t you mad?” Ryan asks. “We’re allowed to be mad.”

Jon is quiet. Ryan is going mad waiting for an answer. He digs his fingers into the loose fabric of his sweatpants.

“It’s weird,” Jon finally says. “I’m not mad, but it’s weird. I don’t really like it.”

“I’m mad,” Ryan huffs.

“You’re allowed to be. I’m – I’m just thinking that I’m glad we’re alive. I don’t have a lot of time to be wishing I was doing something else or wanting Brendon and Spencer to be doing something else. I’m just really fucking happy to even be breathing right now.” Jon looks at Ryan and he smiles. “I’m glad you’re breathing with me.”

“It’s hard being grateful that you’re alive when music was your life and now it’s the one thing you can’t do.” Ryan raises his shoulder. He doesn’t expect Jon to understand. No one will understand.

There is a silence. Jon focuses on the road, changing lanes, and Ryan watches the bright glow of the headlights of other cars. He has to close his eyes because he remembers catching the shining, blinding light in the side mirror before his whole life was quite literally flipped upside down.

“Who said you can’t still play?” Jon asks.

“Don’t, Jon,” Ryan says. “Don’t give me that false hope bullshit.”

“I’m not. I just – I don’t think you should be so quick to call this an ending. We could play again … this doesn’t have to be it.” Jon sounds so hopeful that it almost makes Ryan want to believe, but it makes him angry more than that. How can Jon think they can go on?

“How am I supposed to play, Jon? I can’t,” Ryan bites out. His skin feels hot. He’s frustrated, his arm aching like it’s aware he’s thinking of it, like he’s being punished for hating it.

“You’ve still got your voice, don’t you? You can still sing. Remember that drummer from Def Leppard? He lost his arm and still played. You’re not giving yourself or your body enough credit,” Jon says.

Ryan looks out the window, his heart beating fast. He feels sick. It’s too hot in the car; he feels like he can’t breathe. Ryan can’t picture himself singing or playing any kind of instrument. He’s not a drummer. He plays guitar. He can’t think of a way to do that one-handed. He thinks of lyric books filled with messy, left-handed scrawl, standing on a stage in front of a crowd of gawking, jeering fans who only gathered to witness the mess he’d become.

Ryan fumbles for the button of the window and rolls it down halfway, letting the cool air of the night seep into the car. He wishes the breeze could collect him, could steal him away and lift him into the sky and he’d float along where no one else could ever hope to reach him.

“You’re not me, Jon,” Ryan begins. He starts out calm. “You don’t know what this feels like to be a prisoner in your own body. I know my limitations … I know what I can and can’t do. You don’t fucking know, so why don’t you take your inspirational speech and shove it up your ass! I don’t want to talk about fucking music!” Ryan shouts, slamming his good hand down against the dash of his car. Jon looks surprised and clears his throat before he nods.

“Okay. We won’t talk about it.” Jon’s voice is dead of any emotion, any sign of what he’s feeling, but that’s a signal in itself. Jon is hurt or pissed or both; Ryan probably fucked up right there. Jon has no obligation to stay with Ryan, and if Ryan lashes out at him, what’s to say he won’t get fed up and go? Nothing is keeping him here now, especially if he knows the chances of reforming the Young Veins is slim to none.

Ryan keeps his head angled towards the window, air rushing at him. He doesn’t talk and Jon doesn’t talk and the silence that had been swirling around like a toxic fog since back at Brendon’s has followed them, sunk into their clothes and skin. It fills up all the empty space until Ryan feels like he can’t breathe, even though he’s sucking down fresh California air.

Back at home, Ryan stalks to his room and collapses in bed. He falls wrong, onto his arm, and the mattress isn’t soft enough to ease the pain that the impact causes him. Jon had been in the living room. Ryan doesn’t know what they’ll do now. He won’t apologize. He won’t go and talk to Jon first.

Eventually, there are footsteps. Ryan feels Jon standing in his room.

“Your medicine,” Jon says.

Ryan sighs. “Leave it on the nightstand.”

Jon does. Ryan listens to the clink of the water glass being set down alongside the pills. “Look, maybe I shouldn’t have said that shit in the car. I shouldn’t have pressed the issue, but I’m not going to apologize to you,” Jon says. Ryan sits himself up as best he can and looks at Jon.

“What?” He’s surprised. He was expecting an apology.

“You’re counting yourself out before you tried to fight. How many people in your group just gave up on the things they loved to do and wouldn’t try because they were scared? You’re a musician, but you’re not acting like one – ”

“Shut up, Jon,” Ryan seethes. He pushes himself up so he and Jon are standing, so Ryan is taller. He feels less like a child being given a stern talking-to. “Why don’t we cut your fucking arm off and see how eager you are to pick up a guitar?”

Jon frowns, his body tense and his eyes flickering with hurt and anger. Ryan stands firm. This is the first fight he’s gotten into in a long time; it’s been even longer since he’s had a fight with Jon. “I just want to help,” Jon says.

“By forcing me into something I don’t want to do? Why? Because you want to play again? Why don’t you just go, Jon? Why don’t you just get the fuck out and go join up with Brendon and Spencer and that asshole Dallon?” Ryan snaps, shaking. He feels sick. Jon’s mouth is a firm line, but he exhales sharply and turns quickly to leave Ryan’s room. Ryan watches him go down the hall and disappear from sight. He listens, shaking and filled with adrenaline, listening for the sound of the front door opening and then slamming shut again.

He drove Jon away. 

***

The ferocious energy that had been burning in Ryan’s veins, compelling him to scream and fight and ultimately push Jon away, fades fast. Ryan feels ill, maybe from Jon’s departure or maybe from not taking his meds. His stomach churns, like he might lose the dinner he ate less than two hours ago.

He doesn’t know what to do. Ryan hates being alone in normal circumstances, but being alone now … well, he hasn’t exactly been completely alone since before the hospital. The thought of calling Spencer comes first, but he doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t want to call Spencer and admit that he fucked up in choosing Jon or admit that he’s not fit to live with anyone but Spencer because Spencer is the only one who will put up with his shit and never leave out of some misplaced sense of loyalty and responsibility. Calling Spencer would be going back on his word, forgetting that he told Spencer to go and live, and Ryan doesn’t want to do that.

He can get by on his own for a while. He has money and can dial the number of take-out places for food. He doesn’t know what will happen if he doesn’t show up to group or doctor appointments – maybe they’ll contact Spencer, since he’s Ryan’s emergency contact, but that shouldn’t happen for a while.

Ryan’s knees wobble. He decides to take his medicine now. He grabs up the pills and pops them into his mouth, then goes for the water. His left hand forsakes him and a tremor runs through him. Ryan’s fingers jerk, which knocks the glass over, spilling the contents onto Ryan’s wood floor. He sighs and collects the cup, swallowing the pills down dry. He goes to the kitchen to refill his glass just for something to do.

The house is too quiet, too still, and Ryan breathes through the panic that comes at him suddenly. He goes to the kitchen and runs the tap. As he waits for the water to grow cold, he catches sight of something outside through the kitchen window. The window above the sink faces out to the driveway. Ryan can see the warm cherry color of a lit cigarette moving around the driveway.

Hope springs up inside of him. Ryan shuts off the water before he heads to the front door. He didn’t hear his own car start, but maybe Jon called a cab; maybe he’s waiting for it so he can get the fuck away from Ryan. Either way, Jon isn’t gone, so Ryan has time.

Ryan goes outside in his socks, the cement warm under his feet. He can see clearer now, the light from inside streaming out into the night because Ryan left his front door hanging open. The porch lights don’t work – Ryan’s never gotten around to changing the bulbs in them. With the new source of light, Ryan sees his own car still parked in the drive and Jon’s back facing him. Jon’s sitting on the hood of Ryan’s car, silver wisps of smoke rising around his head like signals.

Ryan pads down the drive, his heart quickening. The closer he draws to Jon, the more he realizes he doesn’t have a single idea of what he should say. Ryan reaches Jon’s side. Jon is smoking, staring out at the expanse of Echo Park that can be seen from the hill Ryan lives atop. It’s beautiful at night, one of the main reasons Ryan chose this place when he was house-hunting.

“You didn’t leave,” Ryan says. It isn’t a question – he’s just surprised. His voice is a soft whisper compared to what it was a handful of minutes ago. Jon pulls a drag from his cigarette and blows out the smoke to his right before he looks at Ryan. He looks sad, worn down. Jon’s legs are on the front grille of the car and his knees are almost to his chest, his arm draped across them, his other arm bringing the cigarette to his mouth.

“You really want me to?” Jon asks, taking another drag. The cigarette is mostly ash that Jon hasn’t flicked away yet.

Ryan touches at his bad arm through his shirt. He misses being able to hold on to his arm, lace his fingers together. He misses little things he never thought he would even notice. “No,” Ryan says sheepishly. “No, I don’t want you to go.”

Jon finally flicks away the ash of his cigarette. “They told me I could come back,” Jon says.

“What?”

“Brendon and Spencer,” Jon continues. “They told me I could join Panic again if I wanted to.”

“Oh.” It hurts to hear even if Ryan understands it. The pain buries itself completely in his chest. The thought of having Panic go on with three of the four former members … Ryan, who started it, left on the outside … it hurts. “Did you – ”

“I told them no. I didn’t want to do it without you.” Jon looks at Ryan, his dark eyes completely serious. “I told them I wanted to make music with you.”

“Well, thanks, I guess.” Jon’s mouth twitches. He looks disappointed, flicking his dying cigarette butt down on the ground. “I mean, thanks for thinking of me.”

“It’s not hard. I’m always thinking of you,” Jon says, his voice weak, tired. He rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I want what’s best for you.”

Ryan is touched. He knew Jon cared and he knew that Jon was one of his best friends, but post-accident, his relationships were shaken up. Ryan’s been trying to figure out where all the pieces fit again, seeing some of those pieces with new grooves and edges, for the first time.

“Come back inside?” Ryan says. It’s half a question and half a request. Jon looks at Ryan for a long moment before he slides off the hood of Ryan’s car and lands on the pavement.

“Okay.”

***

Things aren’t perfect the next morning. The two of them stumble around in a state of carefulness, walking around on eggshells, too afraid that one thing – the wrong word, a sore subject – could set off a chain reaction that has them fighting again.

They eat breakfast together. The morning is quiet. Really, the whole house is quiet, save for the gurgling of the coffee machine and the soft clink of their spoons hitting the bottom of their bowls. Cereal is hard for Ryan and his fingers fumble. He grows frustrated. It’s around now that he thinks he should be going back to physical therapy because he feels like he fell back a little in that aspect, his left hand growing fatigued much sooner than Ryan remembers, his fingers blind and thick in their movement.

Ryan sets down his spoon and flexes his hand, sighing uncomfortably.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks, taking a drink of his coffee. He looks concerned. At this rate, Ryan would be happy to never see a look of concern on anyone else’s face for as long as he lives.

“My hand hurts.”

“Probably from slamming it on the dash last night,” Jon muses.

Ryan shrugs. “Probably, but I haven’t been doing my therapy exercises, either.”

Jon scoots back in his chair, the legs scraping against wooden floor. He comes to Ryan’s side. “Give me your hand,” Jon says. Ryan flushes but obliges. It’s no different than when Albert did this. Jon takes Ryan’s hand in both of his and squeezes the center of Ryan’s palm, making his fingers twitch and curl. Jon switches between watching Ryan’s hand and Ryan’s face. He works his short, strong fingers into Ryan’s hand, easing the tight muscles. “Feeling better?” Jon asks. Ryan feels Jon’s fingers brush over his tattoo.

Ryan nods and watches Jon’s fingers press into his skin, sweeping over the inked letters on Ryan’s wrist.

“Why haven’t you gone back to Chicago yet?” Ryan blurts out. It was not what he wanted to say. It comes out of nowhere, but he’s been thinking about it since last night. He’s seen Jon desperate for his hometown, aching to go back, and it seems impossible to him that Jon doesn’t want to spend a portion of the summer there.

Jon watches Ryan’s wrist. His eyes flicker, his cheeks flush. “You need me. I’m not done here.” Jon’s voice is quiet and heavy.

Ryan makes an uncomfortable noise. “So you do want to go home?”

Jon shifts on his knees on the floor before he looks up at Ryan. “What does it matter?”

“That’s not an answer,” Ryan says. “Are you staying here because you think I need a nurse and you’re playing the martyr?” His voice is rising and it’s too soon for another fight but if there was one goddamn thing Ryan thought he made clear was that he didn’t want anyone being self-sacrificial. He never wanted to become a burden to one of his closest friends.

Jon sighs deeply. “No, no, that’s – what even brought this on? I thought you understood what was happening here.”

“What I understand is that you’re trying to take care of me out of pity,” Ryan seethes. He grows angry so much faster these days; there’s no in-between. He blames it on his meds and his new cynical outlook on life – and how the whole fucking world is treating him like he needs his one hand to be held every step of the way.

“You do need help, Ryan, that much is true,” Jon says.

Ryan frowns. “Who says I need it from you?”

Hurt passes through Jon’s eyes. Ryan knows he needs to stop, but anger burns through his blood. He feels the urge to cut and tear and scream until everything around him is in tatters.

Jon stands up and brushes a hand through his hair. “Are you fucking testing me to see how far you can push before I throw in the towel, Ryan? Is that it? Because I’ve been pretty goddamn patient with you and – ”

“I don’t need anyone’s pity, Jon!” Ryan shouts. “You’re supposed to be my friend. I’m not something for you to fix.”

“You are my friend,” Jon stresses. He’s moved himself around to the other side of the table so that the expanse of their breakfast is separating them. “That’s why I want to help you.”

“I made a mistake asking you to stay here!” Ryan sneers. His voice shakes out of him, loud and echoing around the hollow space of his home. Jon doesn’t move – he doesn’t even flinch at Ryan’s raised voice. Jon stands there, solid like a stone, weathering all of Ryan’s words … chipping maybe, ebbing under Ryan’s voice, but never breaking altogether. “Go home, Jon!” Ryan shouts. Even as he says it, Ryan knows it’s dangerous. They’d only just patched up from the night before and now Ryan’s ripping off the bandage between them before the wound had a chance to really heal. As he talks, he knows that this is probably it – not everyone has the same temperance and tolerance for his outbursts. It could prove very easy to wind up pushing Jon too far this time.

The shoulder of Ryan’s bad arm aches painfully. Ryan curses the fact that his pain pills are in the cupboard in the kitchen, right next to where Jon's standing now, staring at him with hurt eyes. “Go back to Chicago! I don’t need you here.” Deep down, Ryan knows he doesn’t really mean what he’s saying. He doesn’t want Jon to leave. He just needs some space, just one second where Jon isn’t asking him what he needs or what he can do. Ryan just wants the two of them to be like they used to.

Jon sets down the coffee cup that he’d picked up sometime around Ryan’s shouting. He’s been calm every time Ryan yells at him, but now his body quakes slightly. He breathes out heavily, the sound like a hiss and a growl wrapped up low and dangerous in his throat.

“You need help,” Jon says, stern and quiet. Ryan’s stomach burns with bile and his half-eaten cereal. “That’s a fact.” Fuck Jon. That’s the last thing Ryan wants to hear right now.

“I fucking don’t need anyone. I have one good hand and I can take my pills and get myself food and fucking sleep. I don’t need you, so get out of my house! Go the fuck home! I know you don’t want to be here, not really. I’m just the world’s burden now, Jon. You think I want to be that? Just go.” Ryan’s words start fast, heated, but they fizzle and die halfway through.

“I can’t!” Jon barks back. It’s a shock. Ryan feels a little like he’s been struck, even though Jon would never hit him. He hasn’t moved an inch from where he’s standing behind his chair, his hands wrapped tight around the wooden backing. It’s the first time he’s yelled at Ryan in years and the first time Ryan’s even heard him raise his voice since he got out of the hospital. Jon's shaking. He looks as bad as Ryan feels.

Ryan snorts. “What? You have a house and animals and a girlfriend. Get out of here, would you?”

“I can’t,” Jon repeats. He lowers his head, refusing to meet Ryan’s gaze. “There isn’t a place for me in Chicago anymore.”

Ryan clenches at the napkin next to his cereal bowl – clench and release, clench and release, over and over again. It reminds him of the minor physical therapy he’d had. It’s comforting in a way. “I don’t,” Ryan starts, but he stalls. He regrets yelling, but the anger is still there, coiled in his stomach. He doesn’t feel like forgiving Jon … not yet.

“I was going to propose,” Jon says quietly after nearly three minutes of straight silence.

Ryan shoots his head up. His body jerks of its own accord. His arm flies out and knocks his bowl of cereal over, sending it clattering to the floor and partially on his lap. “Shit!” He scoots back. Jon is already coming over despite their heated exchange. It’s like a reflex, practically an instinct by now, and Ryan hates that. Jon kneels on the floor and tries in vain to sop up the spilt milk, grabbing napkins off the table and setting them out on the floor. Ryan watches the liquid soak right through them. Jon gives up on the milk and picks up the bowl that thankfully didn’t break.

“You were … what?” Ryan asks, his voice coming out breathless. Milk and tiny bits of cereal stick to his pants and hand, but he doesn’t care, not right now. Jon doesn’t bother looking up from where he’s cleaning.

“I was going to propose to Cassie. I planned it out before the crash. I bought the ring and everything. It was all set, but then the accident happened and you needed someone. There was no way I wouldn’t come take care of you. Cassie said she was worried that I had been hurt in the accident, too. She wanted me to come home right after we found out that you’d live, but I told her no. She told me I needed to come home to help us. She said she spent far too long waiting for me and that she almost lost me. She wanted me to choose.”

Jon is calm as he explains. Ryan wonders when all of this happened. When he was in the hospital? When he was passed out on his meds and Jon wandered around his house, cooking and cleaning and drinking? Ryan can’t believe Jon kept this from him. He wonders if Spencer and Brendon know … if everyone except for him knows.

“What did you – ?” Ryan can’t even bring himself to finish the sentence.

Jon sets Ryan’s bowl back on the table, but he stays on the floor, his head bowed. “I told her I couldn’t choose. There was no fucking way I could pick between you two.” Jon sighs and scratches at the back of his neck with his clean, milk-free hand. “So … she chose for me. She left me.” Jon does look up now, the remnants of sadness are still clinging to his face, burrowing in his eyes. All of this must have happened when Ryan was comatose. Ryan is self-involved, yes, but not enough to not see when Jon's falling apart right before him.

“There is no Chicago. I let her have the house and the pets until I’m settled, you know? She said she’d send me pictures of them, won’t keep them from me, so that’s – ”Jon’s voice sounds strained, like he’s seconds from bursting into tears. Ryan feels like shit. How did he screw up Jon's life just as badly as he wrecked his own? “That’s good,” Jon finally finishes. He pushes up from off the floor and goes to the kitchen. Ryan pretends not to notice his damp eyes and flushed face. Jon's seen him at his worst by now. He can’t say shit about seeing Jon cry.

“Is it okay if I help clean you off?” Jon asks when he returns from the kitchen with a damp rag. Ryan nods, no longer willing to fight. The heat and anger died away around the time Jon admitted to giving up his life in Chicago so that he could, for all intents and purposes, be Ryan’s aide.

Jon wipes off the visible milk and cereal remains, but the majority has sunk into the fabric of Ryan’s pants now. He shivers from the damp rag and Jon’s hands, and the cool milk against his skin.

“You need to change,” Jon says, his voice quiet. Ryan doesn’t know if Jon means change his clothes or his attitude, but either way, Ryan agrees.

The room is heavy. Ryan just nods dumbly; it’s all he can do. He feels like shit for broaching the subject, for forcing Jon to reopen a wound that he wasn’t ready to unearth. Ryan pushes off his seat and Jon scoots back to give him room to pass by.

Ryan can get his pants off on his own. They’re the comfortable track pants Jon got him. He slips right out of them without much resistance. After Ryan changes into a pair of sweatpants, the smallest size Jon could find but the material still bunches too big around Ryan’s waist, he sits on his bed – his bed is no longer on the floor. Jon had bought him a frame and built it himself in the two and a half weeks since Jon started staying with Ryan. The safety-pinned, empty sleeve of Ryan’s shirt is beginning to come loose. Jon hadn’t pinned it today. Ryan had tried his hand at it and obviously failed.

Ryan fingers the thin metal, attempting to fix it. It backfires and the pin slips from where it had been holding the fabric. The right sleeve of Ryan’s button down paisley – he was supposed to wear only t-shirts, but old fashion habits are hard to break – unfurls, long and empty. Ryan glances at the mirror hanging on the back of his door, catching sight of himself. He looks pathetic, sitting there alone with an empty sleeve and ignorant fingers.

He looks away from the mirror, too ashamed to go back out to the kitchen and talk to Jon. He’s surprised, too. The news circles around his brain like marbles caught in a loop. Ryan can’t bear the thought of going to face Jon, but Jon is no good at letting sleeping dogs lie or letting the pieces fall where they may, so he comes to Ryan instead of waiting for Ryan to come to him.

Jon leans in Ryan’s doorway, hip pushed out and arms braced above his head. His t-shirt rides up, and a slice of pale skin peeks out. “Ryan,” he says. Ryan keeps his head down, cheeks burning with embarrassment, his fingers curling and uncurling in a loose fist. “Ryan, look at me,” Jon says. “I have something important to ask you.”

Ryan looks to Jon, embarrassed for all of the things he had screamed at him, all of the things he said in the heat of the moment.

“Do you want me to leave?” Jon asks. “Really?”

“No,” Ryan says. He says it without thought or hesitation. He already knows the answer and offers it up before he can think on the question. “No, I don’t want you to leave. Do you want to leave?” He’s scared that Jon will go and leave him. It would make sense. Ryan feels like he’d deserve it after everything Jon has already put up with. Ryan told him to get out so many times that he can’t be upset if Jon decides to listen. “You could go back to Chicago if you wanted,” Ryan says. “She’d take you back, I bet. She has to.”

Jon sighs and walks the short distance from the doorway to the bed, taking a spot next to Ryan. “What if I don’t want to go back?” Jon’s voice is quiet, a deep rumble of a scared truth.

“What?” Ryan asks, “What? Of course you want to go back … it’s – she’s Cassie. You want to go back.”

Jon bites his lip, red between his teeth. “A part of me, when I was on the phone with her, wanted her to convince me to come back to Chicago … but what if a larger, more terrifying part of me was begging for her to give me a reason to stay here? It hurts. It still does. That was my life. I loved her, really fucking loved her, and I probably will always love her in a way, but Ryan, from the moment you got in the accident, I knew that I didn’t ever want to be anywhere else but with you.”

Jon looks at Ryan expectantly, like he’s waiting for Ryan to say something, but Ryan doesn’t know what to say. In all the time he’s known Jon, there’s always been Cassie, but now he’s giving her up so he can stay in a city he hates with Ryan, someone who can only seem to yell at him? It doesn’t make sense. He can see the light in Jon’s eyes diminish the longer Ryan waits to speak.

“Why, Jon? Why do you want to stay here with me? I’m not exactly a joy to be around lately.” He can’t figure it out. Jon is his friend, but this decision feels like more than that. It feels heavier, something more tangible.

“I thought you were going to die,” Jon says, his eyes open and blown with emotion, his feelings naked in his eyes. “I thought you’d die and I’d never see you again and that – that scared the shit out of me, scared me more than the thought of never seeing Chicago again.”

Jon reaches for Ryan’s hand, his fingers closing around Ryan’s wrist. Jon brings Ryan’s hand to his lap, fingers moving so both of his hands are cupping Ryan’s one. Jon’s thumbs sweep over Ryan’s hand, his eyes watching their joined hands.

“You don’t understand. I was awake after the accident. I was conscious when they pulled us out. The last thing I remember is seeing you being hefted on to a stretcher. It was the single most terrifying moment of my life. I went to you and you looked dead. I swear to God that I thought you were. I touched you, and when I drew my hand back, there was blood.” Jon looks at his hand, removing it from Ryan’s. His eyes spark, like he can still see the stains of Ryan’s blood on his hand. “I was dizzy and had a concussion, but I still remember the last thing I thought. I couldn’t remember the last thing I had said to you and I wondered … whatever it was, was it worthy of being my last words to you? I thought I might die, too, and I couldn’t remember the last thing I said. I just hoped it was enough.” Jon’s voice is tight. Ryan feels the choke of a slow panic wrapping around him, squeezing like a vice.

“Jon, I – I don’t want to hear – ”

“I know you don’t,” Jon says. He takes Ryan’s hand between his again. “But I have to tell you. Okay? You need to know. I woke up in the hospital, disoriented, and my mom was there, Ryan, and Cassie was there, but all I wanted to know was where you were. I almost lost you,” Jon’s voice cracks. It echoes around the room, seeping into Ryan’s skin and reverberating around his heart. “I almost lost you. I don’t ever want that to happen again. I won’t leave because I – ”

Jon goes silent. Ryan’s heart is beating in triple time, his hand twitching inside of Jon’s. He doesn’t know what’s happening here, but he knows it’s an important moment – one of those moments you think about years later and you remember every fucking second of it. Ryan’s had a lot of those moments: hearing Brendon sing, talking to Pete Wentz for the first time, splitting off from Panic, the accident, and now … well, whatever this is.

“You what?” Ryan asks, his voice a surprise to him, a quiet wisp of nothing. He needs Jon’s answer and he strains to hear Jon’s voice over the own rapid beating of his heart against his ribcage. Jon doesn’t answer Ryan. Instead, he leans over, his weight shifting the bed and making Ryan sink into the dip between them. Jon moves timid but quick. Ryan doesn’t even have time to close his eyes before Jon’s mouth brushes over his.

Ryan has never kissed a boy, never even contemplated kissing Jon, especially not now – not when he can’t find a reason for other people to even want to be around him, let alone want him in a romantic sense. Their mouths meet in a soft press, Jon’s stubble-rough mouth scratching lightly against Ryan’s. He can’t think, can’t breathe. Jon’s hand comes up to cup Ryan’s cheek, his thick fingers brushing against Ryan’s cheekbone, warm and instrument-rough. It startles Ryan. Suddenly, they’re kissing. Ryan had somehow gotten it in his head that this was a part of him that he left behind, that no one would ever touch him like this again … that he’d never be loved again.

Ryan gasps, and time suddenly thrown into fast-forward, catching up with them. He’s just now realizing what’s happening to him, what they’re doing. Jon pulls back. Ryan is almost afraid to look at him. Jon is biting his lip again, teeth worrying the skin that Ryan now knows the feel of.

“I’m – I shouldn’t have. I’m – ” Jon stammers and sighs before he’s gone from the bed, backing away. He’s gone from the room before Ryan can even think of what to say. He hears the door to the guest bedroom snap shut. Ryan is at least grateful that Jon didn’t leave the house.

He touches at his mouth, his lips warm from Jon’s, his body tingling pleasantly with an excitement that Ryan was sure died the night of the crash. Ryan’s spent so much time focusing on the negatives of his body, on all of the things it can no longer do, that he forgot about all of the things that are still possible for him.

Ryan leaves his room, his body wracked with nerves. He moves more on autopilot than anything else. They kissed. He and Jon kissed and they can’t – Ryan doesn’t want to run away from that or sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once. He needs to know what just happened and what it means.

He stops outside the guest bedroom. Even from outside the closed door, he can hear the sharp twang of an acoustic being played. If Ryan thought that seeing his instruments hurt, hearing them is ten times worse, like his heart has been pulled from him and held out of his reach. His instruments go on without him … the music goes on without him. It’s all leaving him behind.

Ryan bites back his nerves and knocks on the door. The wavering, lonely notes cease, but Jon doesn’t open the door. Ryan tries the handle – it’s locked. He knocks again.

“Jon, open up.”

Jon doesn’t open the door. Ryan tries the handle again – to no avail. Ryan sets his forehead against the door, his hand touching cool wood. “Jon, what you said … that’s true for me, too. You’ve been there in my mind, always just beneath the surface, always just there but never breaking through. I want you to break through,” Ryan speaks carefully to the door, hoping Jon can actually hear him.

The door opens so suddenly that Ryan almost topples into the room. Jon’s arm shoots out and catches Ryan at his left shoulder, a solid stopper in the doorway, preventing Ryan from falling. Jon’s face darkens. “Don’t say that because you feel like you have to.”

Ryan touches at Jon’s elbow. “I’m not. Don’t kiss me because you’re sad and lonely.”

Jon’s hand on his shoulder turns and cups it, his fingers extending to brush Ryan’s collarbone. “I’m not. Do you honestly believe I’d do this much for just anyone? I followed you out of Panic and into this new life. I’m here. I wouldn’t do that for just anyone, Ryan … only you.”

“There was always the thought of you, but I had Keltie and then Z and you always had her. I never thought it could be any way else.” Ryan’s hand creeps up Jon’s forearm, resting over his bicep. Jon’s body is so strong, muscle and strength where Ryan has bones and ink. Ryan touches Jon’s right arm, a finer, sculpted mirror of his own. “Ever since I met you, there’s been something there. I just never thought we’d get the chance to – ”

Ryan’s words die on the tip of his tongue because Jon’s mouth finds his again. The kiss is less innocent this time, more desperate and wanting. Jon’s mouth is damp. He crowds into Ryan’s space, leaning into Ryan, their mouths caught in a sweet kiss. Ryan opens his mouth against Jon’s, their lips meeting in crashing waves, soft pulls together and slick breaks apart. The only sound between them is the sound of their mouths meeting and breaking.

Heat pools inside of Ryan, filling him like someone had cracked his body open and poured liquid lava inside, his body flaring to life under Jon’s mouth and hands. Jon tangles his fingers in the heavy curls at the nape of Ryan’s neck, his thumb stroking down the back of Ryan’s neck, touching where hair meets skin. Ryan sighs into the touch. He longs for two hands now more than ever so that he can touch Jon too, touch him in all of these new ways. Ryan can’t wait for his one hand to do all of the work.

Jon breaks the kiss and sets his forehead against Ryan’s. His mouth slides across Ryan’s cheek, resting there, and Ryan can feel the soft hiss of Jon’s breath.

“What are we doing?” Jon asks against Ryan’s skin.

Ryan closes his eyes and shakes his head lightly, wisps of Jon’s hair brushing his face. “I don’t know.”

“Should we stop?”

Ryan bites his lip and cautiously seeks Jon’s mouth again, finding the corner and kissing him clumsily. “I don’t want to. I haven’t felt anything in so long.”

Jon’s hands creep across Ryan’s body, down his shoulders, one hand trailing down Ryan’s left arm and the other skipping the procedure at the right and going right for running down his side, tracing faint outlines of Ryan’s ribcage before settling at Ryan’s hip, spreading warm and comfortably possessive.

“I want to be here for you in every way,” Jon tells him. He never knew just how deeply Jon meant it. He didn’t know this was possible between them and how badly he’s always wanted it, and how relieved he is to have Jon in this way now.

It’s a bit of a whiplash to have been fighting with Jon these last few days, just a handful of minutes ago, and now to be embracing him, kissing him. It’s scary how natural it feels, how right. Jon turns them so that he’s facing the doorway and Ryan’s back is facing the bed. Ryan never took note of what was inside the room. The thoughts of the music left him the second Jon opened up.

He doesn’t look now, but he’s aware of the acoustic resting on the floor near a chair where Jon must’ve been sitting when Ryan was talking, the keyboard shoved in the corner, the Epiphone and Gibson left abandoned in the room where Jon sleeps.

Jon kisses Ryan again, less urgent and sweeter. He backs Ryan up until Ryan’s knees hit the edge of the guest bed. Ryan buckles and sits at the edge of the bed.

Jon is still standing. His mouth is red and his eyes are blown dark with the beginnings of emotions that Ryan wants to own and know. Jon folds himself down and forward and leans in to kiss Ryan quickly. They’re on the same level. Jon sinks to his knees in front of Ryan.

“Let me – can I do something just for you?” Jon asks. Ryan isn’t so naive that he doesn’t get what Jon means when Jon is on his knees looking at him like that. Ryan feels a little panicked, but he nods. He can’t – he doesn’t know what he wants. It’s not like his sex drive has disappeared completely, but it’s diminished, wrapped up in so many other factors. Ryan has always hated his body and that’s only worsened now. He doesn’t want someone to touch him if he feels less than alright with himself.

He trusts Jon, though. He might be rushing things, but he deserves a little pleasure – this has been a long time coming. Ryan nods and Jon mimics the action, resting both his hands on Ryan’s knees.

Jon licks his lips. Ryan’s body thrums to life with the promise of what’s to come. Ryan reaches out and touches at Jon’s mouth. Jon catches Ryan’s fingers in a kiss, lavishing attention there. Ryan’s only wearing sweatpants and Jon urges him to stand up so he can get them down. Jon pulls them down so that they bunch up at Ryan’s knees.

Ryan isn’t hard, really, but Jon doesn’t seem deterred by that. He doesn’t go right for Ryan’s cock. Instead, he runs his fingers up Ryan’s thighs, tracing the skin there lightly, as if he were the one lacking touch and craving skin under his palms. Ryan doesn’t know what to do with his hand. Currently, it’s resting against the rumpled sheets on Jon’s bed. Ryan sits there, exposed for Jon, waiting.

Jon’s fingertips are electric against Ryan’s skin. He brushes lightly, but Ryan can feel everything. Jon’s hands move from Ryan’s thighs upwards, creeping a path against Ryan’s skin until he strokes a finger along the base of Ryan’s semi-hard dick.

Ryan shivers and lets out a small noise of approval. Jon hums and shifts on his knees, drawing closer. He pulls back and glances at Ryan before he licks his hand, messy and wet, and he moves back to Ryan, wrapping his damp hand around Ryan’s cock.

Ryan gasps. He can’t even remember the last time he had sex. It feels like an eternity, like a different person’s memories. He hasn’t touched himself in all this time, hasn’t let anyone else touch him. His cock sparks and jerks in Jon’s hand.

Jon is breathing harder than Ryan is. From this angle, Ryan can’t tell if he’s hard or not, but he’s betting that Jon is, which makes him feel good. He can still turn someone on. Jon strokes him ungodly slow, his hand squeezing just a little, and Ryan groans at the thought that this is probably the way Jon warms himself up.

Jon’s fingers swirl over the head of Ryan’s dick, rubbing over the slit. Ryan bows his head and cries out softly. He’s afraid to be too loud or like it too much in case it’s over before it really begins. Jon bends himself forward and holds Ryan’s cock at the base as he licks at the slit of Ryan’s dick. That draws a moan from Ryan, his cock twitching in Jon’s hand, growing fuller, harder, but still not full. Ryan doesn’t know why – he’s turned on and it’s been long enough that he thinks it should be.

Jon’s tongue presses flat against the head of Ryan’s dick. Ryan’s hand tangles in the sheet. He’s thankful that Jon is so persistent. He’s jerking Ryan off and licking sloppily around the head. Ryan’s hips rise up to meet him. He thinks Jon might finally be tired of waiting. He squeezes the base of Ryan’s dick before quickly sucking Ryan into his mouth.

Jon doesn’t take it all at once. Ryan’s half-sure that Jon’s never even sucked cock before, everything either a guess or a play at mimicking what Jon enjoys or has had happen to him. He tries to take too much of Ryan down at once and chokes a little, pulling back and off to cough. Ryan’s not fully hard, but even then, he’s a lot to take.

Jon tries again, slower now, only taking in the head, sucking light and careful. Ryan shudders and groans, his hand flying to Jon’s shoulder without thinking, his fingers digging into Jon’s t-shirt. Jon takes that as encouragement and hums around Ryan’s cock. Ryan pants a little, his body flushing all over.

Jon pulls back after a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Ryan groans at the loss and opens his eyes. “Why’d you stop?” Ryan asks breathlessly.

Jon looks up at him, confusion and frustration clear on his face. “Ryan, you’re not – you’re not getting hard.”

Ryan breathes fast and looks down at his own lap. He isn’t hard, still barely halfway there. It doesn’t make sense – he’s turned on, feels on edge already, and nothing’s even happened to him yet. His body doesn’t seem to be cooperating. Jon looks put-out, like he thinks this is his fault, like he thinks that Ryan isn’t attracted to him.

“It’s not you,” Ryan says, trying his best to assure Jon of the truth. “I like what you’re doing. I’m – I’m turned on. I don’t … this kind of thing doesn’t happen to me.”

Jon touches at his own mouth. Ryan’s cock twitches with a valiant effort to get hard, but it doesn’t happen. Even though Ryan would like Jon to keep trying, he knows that the mood has long since passed.

“Maybe it’s too soon?” Jon asks. “I shouldn’t be – I’m rushing you before you’re ready.”

“I told you I wanted to try. You didn’t rush anything.”

“Stand up so I can pull your pants up,” Jon says. He sounds so frustrated. Ryan feels foolish, but he stands and lets Jon pull his sweatpants up, covering his half-hard dick. Jon gets up and sits next to Ryan on the guest bed. The whole day almost feels like a feverish dream. From learning of Jon’s news to having Jon trying to blow him, nothing feels real. Everything feels fast but not too fast for Ryan because something Jon had said earlier got to him. He knows that what he might not have a lot of is time. He and Jon have never been the most patient of people.

Jon kisses Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan can feel the heat of his mouth through the fabric of his shirt. “Why don’t I give you your medicine now?” Jon asks.

“Okay.” Just because they’ve decided to do whatever it is they’re doing it doesn’t mean all the other parts just magically go away. Jon is still the one taking care of him, but now there’s an affectionate curve to the actions. Ryan gets his pills with a kiss and a cup of water. Jon comes back to the bed, sitting again next to Ryan.

“You should take a nap with me,” Jon says. The day is creeping into late afternoon territory. Ryan does feel like he’s been up longer than just a few hours. He blames it on the fighting, but a nap sounds good and sleeping with Jon sounds even better.

“My room?” Ryan asks. He’s ignored in favor of Jon pulling him down onto the bed.

“Here,” Jon says. “Stay here.”

“My shirt,” Ryan says. “It’s uncomfortable.”

“That’s why I told you to wear the t-shirts,” Jon says, but it’s fond and not annoyed. He leans over Ryan and undoes the buttons around his neck. Before, where Ryan might feel like a child, he now feels that Jon’s doing it in an affectionate way, undressing him like he would if Ryan had two arms. Jon strips Ryan’s shirt and Ryan lets Jon turn him on his side, good arm down to the mattress. Jon slides up behind him, spooning him, his face to the back of Ryan’s neck and his hand tentatively brushing the back of Ryan’s arm, the spot where Ryan’s Q tattoo still lives.

“I always forget you have these ones,” Jon says. Ryan closes his eyes, enjoying Jon’s finger tracing the outline of the tattoo.

“It narrowly escaped the accident. Tom Waits wasn’t so lucky.”

It’s the first time Ryan’s able to make a joke of his accident, of his situation, and he startles himself at that. Jon goes quiet, but Ryan doesn’t worry about it once he feels the cold press of the tip of Jon’s nose against the back of his neck. Jon kisses the back of his neck and his hand inches up to rest on Ryan’s bad arm. He falls asleep to the even sound of Jon breathing behind him and the warm blanket of air spreading against the back of his neck. 

***

When Ryan wakes up, the world is soft and warm. The summer is coming in full force in L.A. and the guest bedroom is stuffy and hot. Jon’s body is like a furnace behind Ryan. Somehow, Ryan is on his stomach and Jon is laying half on top of him. Ryan doesn’t struggle or move. He doesn’t want to. He’d rather be overheated and feel Jon’s heart beating against his back than be cool.

From Ryan’s position on the bed, he can see his prized Epiphone. He longs to touch it. Even if he can’t play, he wants to slide his fingers along the strings; he wants to feel the weight. He wants to do it on his own.

Ryan is pulled from his thoughts by Jon stirring. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been sleeping. There’s no clock in the room. Jon yawns and sighs. Ryan feels when he wakes up, propping himself up over Ryan.

“You okay down there?” Jon murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

“I’m okay. I was just thinking.”

“About what?” Jon asks. He settles down at Ryan’s side again. Ryan wants to turn and look at him, but he can’t pull his gaze away from the guitar before him.

“Music,” Ryan says. “I miss it more and more every day.”

Jon threads his fingers in Ryan’s hair. “Hey, I have an idea. Maybe we should get outta here.”

Ryan turns hard and fumbles around the mattress, rolling into the dip created by Jon’s elbow planted into the mattress. Ryan’s warm body is tucked against Jon’s. “And go where?” Ryan asks into Jon’s t-shirt-covered chest.

“Anywhere. Let’s just get out of L.A., out of California.”

Ryan rolls on his back. “Out of California?”

“Yeah. It’d be good, I think. Let’s go where no one knows us at all.”

Ryan doesn’t think there is such a place. There are people scattered everywhere who know his name, his face, and his story. “We could go to Chicago,” Ryan suggests.

Jon’s face crumples. “Were you even listening to me?”

“You said you wanted your pets, that she’d let you have them when you’re settled. Well, you’re settled with me. Why don’t we go and get them?” Jon thinks, his head tipped down and soft waves of curls falling in his face. “Unless you don’t want to see her yet,” Ryan adds quickly. The words lodge in his throat. Maybe he fucked up here.

“Well, it won’t be easy, but I do miss Dylan, Clovergirl, and Marley. Maybe we should … we can stay with Tom and visit Andy … ” Jon sounds like he’s really considering it. Ryan rubs his hand over his face and smiles. Getting out of L.A. does sound good. Chicago was never his city, but it is Jon’s, and Jon has done so much that Ryan can give this back to him.

“Let’s go,” Ryan says.

“There are preparations to be made. What about your group meetings and physical therapy? Your appointments?”

“They’ll still be here when I get back,” Ryan says. He does have an appointment for group tomorrow that he should go to, but he’d rather skip town and fly to Chicago.

“I’ll look into it,” Jon says.

“Is it warm there?” Ryan asks.

“Chicago in the springtime?” Jon asks. Ryan nods. “You bet it is. Anyway, you want to get some lunch?”

Ryan smiles. “Yeah, I do.”

***

Ryan’s house feels different now. His perspective has changed. He doesn’t know where the lines are drawn with Jon. They didn’t say they were dating and no one confessed an undying love. They just want to be together right now, falling asleep together in bed, kissing between pills and meals. Ryan feels a piece of normalcy fall into place. He never pictured this, but it still feels normal; in some strange sense, it’s the most normal thing in his life at the moment.

Ryan doesn’t ask what they are. He’s never needed labels and that hasn’t changed. He’s content to be with Jon and worry about the details later. Ryan goes to group and thinks about asking the group about sex, if it was hard for them, but Sam is there and he’s telling Ryan silly knock-knock jokes that have Sam cracking up before he can even get to the punch line, so Ryan doesn’t ask about sex. He does tell Mark about Chicago as the meeting is wrapping up, though.

“You’re not going alone, are you?” Mark asks.

“Ah, no, with my … friend, Jon.”

Mark hums and nods. “Well, good! Traveling is always helpful in clearing your head.” Ryan sighs in relief. They can’t make him stay, but he’s glad to be encouraged to go.

“I booked tickets for next week,” Jon says on the way back to Ryan’s place after group is over. “We’re leaving next Thursday.”

“We have to tell Spencer … in person,” Ryan says.

“We’ll do it on Sunday at dinner,” Jon says. “I wanted to ask, though. Traveling is going to be harder than it used to be. There’s going to be a lot of people and … I want to make sure you’re going to be alright. I mean, you thought about that, didn’t you?”

Ryan opens his mouth to answer, but Jon’s cell phone cuts him off. They’re at a stop light. Jon fishes his phone from his pocket before he answers it, mouthing “Will” at Ryan.

“Hey, Will! What’s up?” Jon asks brightly.

Ryan ponders what Jon asked him. He hadn’t thought of it until now. There will be people, fellow fliers and airport workers, maybe even fans that might just be traveling, and they’ll all see Ryan … Ryan minus his arm. It’s not something Ryan can hide from forever, so he swallows and nods with resolve, even though Jon is focused on his conversation with Will.

“Yeah, we’re going back to Ryan’s place right now. Hang on … let me ask him.”

Jon looks over at Ryan. “Will and the Nicks want to come over to visit you.”

“Tell them they can,” Ryan decides. He misses his band and wants them to be together. They’re missing Andy, who went back to Chicago after he was patched up in the hospital, but it’s close enough to the full set that Ryan feels hopeful.

Jon goes back to his conversation with Will. After they hang up, Jon turns back to Ryan.

“About what you asked earlier,” Ryan says. “I’ll be okay. I’ll wear my jacket and maybe no one will notice.” It’s a wishful, naïve thought, but it calms Ryan enough to go through with the plan.

Jon nods and smiles, turning off onto the entrance to Echo Park. 

***

Will and the Nicks show up after lunch. It’s strange, seeing them after such a traumatic experience. There’s a bond between all of them now, something they all managed to live through – that’s something that can’t fade with time. It’s something Ryan doesn’t have with anyone else but the Young Veins.

Will hugs Jon first and then comes around to where Ryan’s sitting, stooping down to hug him, too, squeezing gently. “How do you feel, Ross?” Will asks as he pulls back.

Ryan shrugs. “Getting a little better every day.”

Will’s eyes flicker over Ryan’s pinned sleeve. He wears his dress shirts out in public, unwilling to wear t-shirts and sweatpants around anyone other than Jon or Spencer and Brendon. They had all been there post-accident and have seen Ryan without his arm, but he figures that once is enough. If it were the other way around, it’d take Ryan time, too.

Nick Murray – who they always called Nicholas when both of the Nicks are together just because it’s easier – and Nick White shuffle over and they, too, hug Jon and Ryan. It feels a little like Ryan is the center of attention, which he hates. Jon is there to deflect some of the attention. Will talks to him, leaving the Nicks with Ryan.

“How’s your hand?” Ryan asks Nicholas. He takes in the thick, white bandages wrapped around splints on two of Nicholas’ fingers. Nicholas wriggles the bandaged fingers of his left hand; they move clumsily, reminding Ryan of his own.

“Can’t drum, but I can’t complain, either,” Nicholas says. He sits down at the table with Ryan. Nick joins him in the other chair. “Nick’s been staying with me to help out a bit.”

“Listening to him whine, mostly,” Nick says. Nick is the only one of them besides Will who came out of the crash with little-to-no damage. Ryan expected to be bitter about it – he used to be, but now he’s just glad to know that his bandmates are doing all right.

“We miss you two,” Nick says, glancing between Ryan and Jon. “We need our leader.”

“Will is our leader,” Ryan says. Will looks over with a raised eyebrow.

“Since when?”

“Since I retired,” Ryan says. He laughs, but there’s an uneasiness he can’t shake. He’s scared they’ll ask him about where the band goes from here, or that someone will mention the elephant in the room, and then Ryan will have to say what he’s been thinking for three months now. He’ll never play again.

“I’ll only hold the position temporarily,” Will says, “Until you’re back.”

“That sounds like a deal to me.”

Will looks back at the Nicks and Jon. “Hey, I was wondering if you guys could give me a minute with Ryan. I need to talk to him about something.”

Jon raises an eyebrow, but Ryan nods and the Nicks stand to follow Jon into the living room. Will takes Nicholas’ vacated seat and sighs, pushing a hand through his mess of curly hair. “How are you?” Will asks. “I mean, really?”

Ryan tips his chin down to his chest. “It’s hard, Will … it’s really hard.” Ryan is surprised at how forthcoming he is with Will, but he always found Will easy to talk to. That’s why he was in the passenger seat of the van the night of the crash. He couldn’t sleep. Will was driving and Ryan wanted to talk to him.

“I’m sorry,” Will says. He rests his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

“For what? It’s … it’s no one’s fault.”

“I was driving that night. I should’ve been more careful. You guys trusted me with your safety and I fucked up. I ruined everything. I’m so sorry … nothing I can do can make up for what happened. ” Will sounds agonized. Ryan knows that Will and Jon occasionally talk, and he wonders if Jon knew that Will was this tortured by the accident.

“That was … it was an accident. I don’t – Will, I don’t blame you.” It would be easy to pin it all on Will, press all of his anger on to Will’s shoulders, but Ryan likes Will. He can’t do that, can’t bring himself to blame Will for the crash. He remembers after the accident that he wanted to find Will and make sure he was alive. He can’t blame Will because it was a turn of fate and luck. If it had been anyone else or if Ryan had been driving, he wouldn’t want anyone else to blame him.

“It doesn’t seem fair to me. I get to go on tour and you’re just – ”

“I’m kind of used to it,” Ryan says. “I’m used to getting hit by the fickle hand of fate. Bad shit happens in my life all of the time. Panic was an exception for a while. I learned to just keep moving after a while. It’s hard to remember now, but Jon is helping me.” Ryan hopes he isn’t smiling too wide at the thought of Jon – not enough for Will to think something of it, at least. He and Jon didn’t decide to keep them a secret, but they’re also not jumping to out themselves, either. For now, Ryan is comfortable in this middle space.

“You get a lot of shit,” Will says, resting his chin in his hand and peering at Ryan through his wire frames. “But you’re a lot more resilient than people give you credit for.”

Ryan smiles. Will reaches out to squeeze at Ryan’s right shoulder. Just then, Jon and the Nicks return. Jon slips his cell phone into his pocket. “Everything sorted out?” Jon asks. Will nods, pushing up out of his chair.

“Jon told us you two are going to go see Andy in Chicago next week,” Nicholas says.

Will looks between Jon and Ryan. “Yeah? Send him our warmest wishes. “

“We’ve got to have a reunion soon,” Nicholas says.

Nick comes to stand next to Will, wrapping his arm around Will’s waist. “We miss you guys.”

The Nicks and Will stay at Ryan’s for a while. There’s a case of beer in the backseat of Nick’s car and they bring it inside to drink. Ryan can’t drink because of his meds, so he sits curled in the corner of the couch next to Jon. They smoke up, Jon holding the bowl to Ryan’s mouth while Will and the Nicks drink and talk and laugh. Ryan relaxes.

There was a lot more that he had wanted to do with the Young Veins. There are lots of stream-of-conscious lyrics and bridges of songs Ryan has swirling around his brain. He could write them down, save them in his notebook, but he doesn’t know what he’d do with them after that. It’s not as nagging anymore, not as hard to simply let them die in his mind.

Ryan, without much thought to what the others will think tips sideways and rests his head against Jon’s shoulder; closing his eyes and listening to Nicholas tell a funny story about the last time he and Laena went drinking. The next time Ryan opens his eyes, he sees Jon bent over, picking up beer cans from the living room floor. Ryan is spread out along the couch, ankles hooked over the arm.

The house is silent. Ryan yawns. “Where is everyone?” he asks.

Jon stops cleaning for a moment, looking over at Ryan. “They left about half an hour ago. We didn’t want to wake you.”

“You could have,” Ryan says softly. “It was good to see them.”

“It really was. I thought maybe it’d be hard. It’s kind of like seeing people you survived a house fire with or something, though. We all got out of it okay, you know? But it just – just reminded me of the good times.”

“Makes me miss touring,” Ryan says.

Jon frowns at the empty can of beer in his hand. He looks like he’s afraid to agree or disagree, like maybe he feels like he’s not allowed to say he misses music or touring, too, because he’s not incapable of touring or making music, not like Ryan is now.

“You can tell me if you miss it, too,” Ryan says after a long silent beat. Jon puts his collected beer cans in the garbage bag at his side and wipes his hands on his jeans.

“I never know what to say about music. I never want you to hurt because of something I say.”

“Hurting is inevitable. We’re both musicians. I know music is alive in your blood, Jon.”

Jon bites his lip. “I do miss it.”

Ryan nods against the couch cushion. “I think we all do. That’s why Will is with fun. and Nicholas is with the Black Apples and Nick and Conor play and Andy has his old band in Chicago. Where does that leave you and me?”

“Together,” Jon says, like it’s really that simple.

Ryan smiles and waits for more. Jon collects his cans. The four of them must’ve finished off the entire case of beer between them. “Ryan?” Jon says after a moment.

“Hm?”

Jon is biting his lip again, his tongue flickering out to sooth bitten skin. “I – ” Jon falters. “Never mind. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

“Okay,” Ryan says. He’s curious as to what Jon was going to say, but he lets it drop all the same. Jon leaves the garbage bag and comes to Ryan’s side. Jon leans over Ryan, hands on either side of his head, catching Ryan’s mouth in a soft kiss. “I like kissing you whenever I feel like,” Jon says. Ryan smiles against Jon’s mouth.

“Yeah, you’re pretty lucky. I’m a great kisser.”

Jon huffs out a laugh against Ryan’s mouth. Ryan loops his arm around Jon’s neck and lets Jon pull him up so he’s sitting next to Jon. He’s too tall and gangly for Jon to carry so he just gets Ryan standing, their bodies close together. Jon moves Ryan’s hand from his neck, tangling his hand with Ryan’s and kissing him again.

“I’m lucky, but your kissing skills only play a small part in that,” Jon mumbles against Ryan’s mouth.

The two of them get to Ryan’s room. Jon helps Ryan change into his sleep clothes. Ryan crawls into bed and Jon sits next to him. “Can I stay and make out with you for awhile?” Jon breathes into Ryan’s ear.

Ryan shivers. “You can always stay and we can always make out.”

Jon slinks over Ryan and plants his hands in the mattress above Ryan’s shoulders. It’s exciting kissing Jon, electricity warming his body where Jon’s is meeting Ryan’s. He opens his mouth under Jon’s and Jon’s tongue slips inside. Ryan groans, familiar heat pooling inside of him. Jon touches his jaw and his neck, stroking his skin and pressing his thumbs into the dips of Ryan’s body.

Jon sucks Ryan’s tongue before his mouth follows the trail forged by his fingers. He bites Ryan’s neck, his facial hair scratching Ryan’s skin. He licks over the hurt afterward. Ryan wonders if he’ll have a mark there come morning, something he can touch and look at, and remember.

Ryan shifts his hips. His body is excited and his cock stirs in his pants, but Ryan can feel Jon already hard against his thigh. Jon ruts a little but makes no action to go further. He just kisses Ryan, nuzzling at his skin. Ryan’s cock stirs again, but he’s still not hard, not like Jon. He thought before it was just a fluke, just a one-time thing, but maybe … maybe he can’t get hard anymore. What if he can never get hard again?

He tries to push the thought from his head and focus on the damp slide of Jon’s mouth against his, but it nags at him, worries him. He doesn’t qualify it as a relationship exactly, but he’s not going to get very far with Jon if he can never have sex. “Jon. Hey, Jon,” Ryan says.

Jon lifts his head from where he’s sucking at Ryan’s neck. Jon’s mouth is pleasantly red and Ryan reaches out to touch at it, rubbing his thumb along Jon’s thick bottom lip. Jon opens his mouth and sucks Ryan’s thumb into his mouth. Ryan gasps. “What?” Jon asks as he releases Ryan’s digit.

“I’m actually pretty tired. Group always wears me out, you know?” It’s not a total lie. Ryan is tired and group does wear him out, but he could manage to stay up longer if he thought he could have sex.

“Oh,” Jon says. He looks disappointed as he crawls off of Ryan, flopping down next to him instead, his eyes dark. There’s an obvious bulge in his pants.

“Don’t leave, though,” Ryan says. “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

“Sure,” Jon says. “Sure, I will. Of course.” His voice is strained and tight from arousal. Ryan’s never really heard Jon like that before. It almost makes him want to give Jon permission to rut against his ass until he comes as long as he’ll talk to Ryan during it.

Jon turns them so he’s spooning Ryan. Ryan does feel Jon’s cock pressing against the back of his thigh. Ryan gulps in air – he feels dizzy from want, but he can’t go through with anything. Jon doesn’t try anything. He’s stronger than Ryan could ever be if the roles were reversed.

Jon wraps his arms around Ryan’s middle and sets his head against Ryan’s thin back. Ryan closes his eyes. Silence takes the room, but sometime between when Ryan does fall asleep and when he’s still clinging to consciousness, Jon starts humming an easy tune – something that Ryan’s never heard before. It’s the last thing he hears before falling asleep.

***

When Ryan wakes up the next morning, he’s all alone. He figured Jon would go back to cleaning when Ryan fell asleep, but he thought Jon would also come back to Ryan’s bed for the night. Ryan pads through his house and stops at the guest bedroom. Jon is asleep, sprawled on the guest bed with Ryan’s acoustic next to him, lying like a mate on the bed. Ryan’s never been jealous of an instrument before, but he wanted Jon to sleep next to him last night.

Ryan’s laptop is also set up next to the bed. Ryan creeps to the laptop and peeks at the screen. There are two tabs brought up, one a porn site and the other GarageBand. Ryan frowns at the screen. Jon had probably come into the guest room to jerk off, but the guitar and music program don’t make much sense. Ryan knows there are demos of the Young Veins songs that are on the laptop, so maybe Jon was fooling around with them, just listening for nostalgia’s sake. It’s like Jon senses Ryan’s in the room because he startles awake. Jon stretches, his shirt riding up, and Ryan notices his jeans are undone, his boxers peeking out underneath.

“Hey,” Jon says, his voice rough with sleep.

Ryan smiles. “Good morning.” Jon glances at the laptop and then Ryan before he moves the guitar next to him so that he can push the top of the laptop closed. “I saw the porn already,” Ryan says. Jon looks sheepish and pats the spot on the bed next to him. Ryan folds onto the bed and crawls up next to him. “I don’t mind if you jerk off in here, but you’re supposed to come back,” Ryan says into the fabric of Jon’s shirt.

“I meant to.” Jon kisses Ryan’s forehead before leaning over and kissing Ryan’s mouth despite the fact that they both have morning breath. The shrill sound of a cell phone ringing interrupts them. Jon sighs before he rolls so he’s on his stomach, sticking his hands under the pillow and extracting his cell phone.

“It’s Brendon,” Jon says.

“Answer it,” Ryan tells him. Jon does.

“Hey, Bren.”

It doesn’t bother Ryan that Brendon calls Jon all the time. He almost prefers it that way. The amount of things Ryan’s had to say to Brendon died with the split. More often than not, they toe the line between awkward silences and subjects that are off-limits.

“Yeah, we can do that. Okay. Yeah, it’s not a problem. Alright, see you then,” Jon says. He hangs up and turns on his side.

“What’s up?” Ryan asks.

“Brendon and Spencer want us to come over. I guess they have some stuff to do on Sunday so they wanted to move dinner to today.”

“Probably recording stuff,” Ryan says. He sighs wistfully. He’d give anything to be in the kind of frenzy where you’re creating something new, bringing ideas to life. Jon reaches out and pushes a curl out of Ryan’s face.

“You do want to go, right? I can call them back if not.”

“No, I’ll go. I need to tell Spencer about Chicago to his face.”

Jon nods. “Breakfast?” he asks. Ryan nods.

“I’m going to take a shower first.”

“Okay,” Jon says. He leans over and kisses Ryan with a soft pressure, his tongue dipping into Ryan’s mouth. Ryan hums. He never really understood how affectionate Jon was until they started this, but it’s nice having someone who wants to be around you and kiss you and make you breakfast.

Jon goes to the kitchen and Ryan goes to shower. He strips out of his clothes and steps carefully into the shower. Jon had installed a metal bar inside the shower; even though it’s meant for people much older than Ryan, he’s none-too-prideful to know that he actually needs it. Ryan grabs the bar and steps into the shower. The rest is easy enough, though it takes him longer to shower.

During his washing, Ryan skims over his cock. It twitches to life when his hand passes by. Ryan touches himself for the first time in a long time. He strokes himself the way he’s used to, the way he likes: slow strokes first, turning his damp fist around his head, thumbing under the head. Ryan shivers and bites his lip. He’s still learning his body. It honestly surprises him when he feels his cock hardening in his hand. It’s not that he didn’t think he would never be hard, but he didn’t get hard with Jon’s mouth wrapped around his cock. Now that he’s touching himself in the shower, his dick is harder than it had ever gotten with Jon.

Ryan doesn’t know what that means, but he doesn’t stop touching himself. He almost calls for Jon, but what would he do then? Show off his erection proudly? Have Jon join him in the shower and actually get laid? What stops him from calling Jon is fear. What if Jon feels bad? What if he thinks Ryan can only get hard with someone besides Jon – or, even worse, what if his hard-on goes away once Jon joins him?

Ryan hunches forward, water beating down his thin back, and jerks himself off. He rarely jerked off with his left hand when he had both hands, but it’s still good, still pleasurable. Ryan doesn’t think about Jon touching him. He doesn’t even think of himself, he just thinks of Jon. He settles on imagining Jon last night after he left Ryan’s bed. Jon’s hand shoved down the front of his boxers, Jon biting his lip to keep quiet. He imagines Jon with his neck arched, his head buried in the pillows. Ryan envisions the way Jon’s hips would roll upwards when he got close, how he’d fuck his own hand in the same way he’d stroked Ryan, squeezing at the base of his cock to prolong the pleasure that much longer. Ryan imagines Jon touching himself with sure hands in all the right ways. It’s been so long that Ryan is on edge faster than he’s ever been in such a short amount of time.

Ryan keeps up the flashflood of Jon-laden imagery. He might be making noises, embarrassing and loud to his own ears, but he hasn’t come in so long and he doesn’t care and he’s so close. Ryan pictures Jon working himself to the edge and he comes the same time as the Jon in his imagination does.

Afterward, Ryan cleans himself up. With the help of the bar, he steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his shoulders. Ryan can smell breakfast. He doesn’t want to interrupt Jon’s cooking, so he dresses himself to a certain extent, just putting on his underwear and his pants. He leaves the pants undone and manages to get one of his button-ups on but hanging open. He needs Jon for all the fine details. Ryan heads out to the kitchen. Jon is making pancakes. He’s got a little stack of them on a plate on the counter. He hasn’t started cooking more yet, so Ryan clears his throat to get his attention.

“You’re doing better,” Jon says. He comes to Ryan without asking. Jon reaches for Ryan’s zipper. It’s strange for him to be doing Ryan’s pants up, tugging up the zipper and doing the button for him, eventually putting a belt on Ryan, too. Jon runs his fingers up Ryan’s chest. Ryan shivers, his body still strung tight from coming. Jon grins and opens his palms, running them over Ryan’s hips to touch at his back. Jon kisses Ryan’s jaw. Ryan feels a little guilty – he’s just come and Jon doesn’t know. Ryan doesn’t know why he can’t get hard with Jon; he’s afraid to try again in case he still can’t. If he can’t during the next time they try, then there’s something deeper than a fluke going on.

Jon thankfully pulls back though and carefully buttons up Ryan’s shirt for him, pressing a kiss to his mouth afterward. “Go get your belt and I’ll put that on for you,” Jon breathes against Ryan’s mouth. Ryan nods and slips away to go find his belt.

After Jon’s done his belt up, there are pancakes waiting for him. Ryan’s hand shakes a little as he eats his breakfast. He feels the effects of skipping his physical therapy, which doesn’t slip past Jon. “I was thinking,” Jon says. “I could call your physical therapist and ask him about things I could do with you if you really don’t want to go anymore or even just while we’re on our trip. I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“My hand just gets tired,” Ryan says. “It used to happen to my other hand when I would write too much.”

Jon hums and eats his pancake. “I think I’ll call anyway. I want to know what he’ll say.”

Ryan shrugs and blows a curl out of his face. “Jon, I think I need a haircut,” Ryan says. Jon looks through his own curls and smiles. “I think we both do.”

After breakfast, they leave to go to find a place for a haircut. Jon picks a nondescript place that’s empty of other customers. Ryan’s got a blazer on over his paisley. It’s easier for him to feel like he has an arm or that the blazer is somehow protecting him, hiding the truth.

The hairdresser calls Ryan “Miss” when they first enter the shop, and after Jon laughs and corrects her, she asks him what he wants done to his hair. Ryan tries not to play with the empty sleeve of his blazer as he sits in the barber chair. He’s thankful when the woman doing his hair drapes the smock over his shoulders, covering him up from the neck down. Jon sits across from him in a chair by the cash register.

Ryan doesn’t go very short. He has her cut his curls off, watching them fall to the floor. In the end, his hair is still long, just not creeping down his neck and falling into his eyes. Jon goes after Ryan’s done and he does go short, cutting off most of his curls.

“I liked the curls,” Ryan points out.

“My hair grows fast,” Jon says in response. “Am I still handsome?” Jon asks when he’s all done, the woman running her fingers through Jon’s hair, styling it.

“No more than usual.”

Jon laughs and slides from the chair to pay the woman before he and Ryan leave to head to Spencer and Brendon’s place for lunch. Brendon’s dog bounces around Ryan and Jon’s ankles, begging to be petted. Jon squats down and scoops the trembling bundle of dog up into his arms. Bogart freaks out and licks Jon’s face and neck.

“You’re going to smell like dog and I am not going to kiss you,” Ryan warns.

“You won’t kiss me if I smell like dog? Nice to know.” Jon smiles, considerably more at ease than the last few days and maybe Ryan is too. They’re together and the promise of a vacation is brightening their spirits. Spencer and Brendon are both together in the kitchen, Brendon cooking and Spencer supervising. They seem lighter, too, happier than Ryan’s seen the two of them in a while. Jon sets Bogart down and leads Ryan into the kitchen.

Spencer sits on the counter opposite Brendon’s stove where Brendon’s cooking some kind of Spanish rice. “You two got yourselves all fancy just for us? You shouldn’t have,” Brendon says, glancing over his shoulder at the two of them, grinning huge and bright.

Something has changed. The atmosphere feels better, cleaner. Ryan can’t put his finger on it, but he likes it. It feels a little like a breakthrough, like maybe they all really can be like they used to be. Brendon ushers them out of the kitchen to the table where Spencer brings the food out on plates. It reminds Ryan of a married couple and those dinners married couples throw with other married couples.

“Hey, so, we kind of have an announcement to make,” Jon says during their meal. Spencer arches an eyebrow and Brendon looks stricken. Ryan knows why. The last time any sort of announcement was made was to say how the band wasn’t working and that splitting into two parts seemed to be a better idea.

“Last time that was said, things ended kind of bad,” Spencer says.

“This is happy news,” Jon says. He’s smiling like an idiot, which eases a smile onto Brendon’s face. Ryan laughs at Jon. Spencer looks at Ryan like he’s suddenly sprouted his long-lost arm.

“Then tells us this happy news,” Brendon says, sounding considerably happy again.

Jon looks to Ryan, urging him to go on with their announcement. Ryan touches at his newly-cut hair and bites his lip. It’s not that he’s worried Spencer will be angry or that he won’t go if Spencer doesn’t think it’s a good idea. Spencer can’t forbid him from leaving the state. He doesn’t want to fight. The ground the four of them walk on is tenuous at best.

“We’re, ah … we’re going to Chicago in a week.”

There’s a brief silence. Spencer looks quietly surprised. “Together?” Spencer asks. Ryan knows why he’s asking. Jon going to Chicago is normal, but Ryan tagging along? That makes less sense.

Jon nods. “Together. We thought it’d be a good idea.”

“When did the two of you become a ‘we’?” Spencer asks.

“Around the same time the two of you did,” Jon says, his finger traveling from Spencer to Brendon and back again. Spencer’s mouth forms a thin line. Ryan can feel the lightness fading from them.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Brendon says with a nod, trying his best to ease the mood. “It’ll be fun. Ryan needs some fun.”

Spencer hums like he’s considering the idea. “If it’s what you want, Ryan,” Spencer says. It echoes like the dinner Ryan and Spencer had when the idea of two bands became a reality.

Ryan glances at Jon. “I want it.”

“When are you leaving?” Brendon asks.

“Next Thursday.”

“How long are you staying?” Spencer asks.

Ryan looks at Jon. “We’re not sure,” Jon starts. “We’re going to stay with Tom while we’re there.”

Spencer nods and scratches at his chin. “Did you clear it with your doctors?”

“You’re acting like my mother, Spencer,” Ryan says with a sigh.

“I just want to make sure you’re being safe and smart about this.”

“I cleared it with my group leader.” Ryan is growing irritated. He knows Spencer needs to know this, deserves to know it, but he doesn’t want Spencer thinking he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Hey, Jon, there’s something I wanted to show you,” Brendon interrupts. He’s fidgeting, aware of the awkward turn the conversation is taking, and he seems to want to pull himself and Jon from it. Jon looks at Ryan, silently asking if he should go with Brendon. Ryan nods. Jon pushes up from the table and follows Brendon back towards the guest bedrooms.

Spencer watches them go. Brendon’s excuse is lousy, but it works, and now he and Spencer are all alone at the table. When Brendon and Jon are out of sight, Spencer turns his gaze to settle on Ryan. “Are you sure about this, Ryan?” Spencer asks. He leans in close to Ryan, like they’re trading secrets at his dinner table like when they were kids. “I mean, you know you can stay here with us if Jon wants to go to Chicago.”

“I want to go to Chicago,” Ryan says firmly.

“What if he gets too busy to help you?”

“He won’t.”

“What if he wants to go out with Tom or Cassie or whoever else he hangs with in Chicago?”

Ryan frowns. “Stop it, Spencer. Jon won’t leave me behind.”

Spencer’s eyes flash with a new sense of knowledge. “Is there … is there something going on with you two?”

Ryan flushes lightly. He had mentioned to Spencer that he and Z broke up, but he never said anything about almost having sex with Jon, about starting whatever it is they started together. Had he and Jon been that obvious during their meal? There had been a few moments where their hands brushed or their smiles lingered. Even if Spencer did figure them out, they weren’t exactly keeping it a secret to begin with.

“We’re doing something that resembles dating,” Ryan says. He touches at his throat. “Just with fewer labels.” Spencer pushes a hand through his hair. “You’re surprised?” Ryan asks. Spencer laughs honestly.

“Not as much as you would think. You two are probably the least subtle people in the world. You know, it makes sense to me. You two have gone through something huge together. I get it. I get how you can just sort of fall for someone and not know how it happened or how much you wanted it until it happens but you’re really fucking glad you got it either way.”

Ryan tilts his head. “Spence,” he asks. “Are you and Brendon … ?”

Spencer ducks Ryan’s question. “Actually, Brendon and I had something to announce ourselves.”

“You’re fucking?” Ryan questions. It wouldn’t be a surprise. Ryan guesses that’s why it’s not surprising for Spencer that he and Jon are fooling around. Long ago, they all knew where the pieces were falling and who was aligning with whom.

Spencer laughs lightly and shakes his head, fingering his bangs. “It’s something about music.”

“It’s always about music,” Ryan says. “What is it?”

“Dallon is coming over soon,” Spencer says. “We wanted him to be here when we told you.”

Ryan’s stomach tightens. “If that Dallon guy needs to be here, I think I already know what it’s about.” Ryan doesn’t really want to do this. He doesn’t want to sit with his old band as they welcome in a new member, but the Young Veins had new members much sooner than Panic did. Then again, Ryan and Jon never made Spencer and Brendon watch that.

Jon and Brendon return to the dining room. Jon looks like he’s been delivered the same news as Ryan. Jon sits next to him – maybe to prove a point to Spencer or just to comfort Jon, to show him that the two of them are together in this. Ryan rests his hand on top of Jon’s.

Spencer watches them like he’s seeing them for the first time as a duo. Jon smiles at Ryan. Brendon looks at them, too, eyebrows knitted together, the ghost of a smile on his face. There’s a knock on the back door. Brendon is up and gone in a flash to answer it. Brendon returns a moment later with Dallon in tow, laughing at something that no one else heard.

Dallon is carrying a wooden box in his hands. He smiles at Ryan and Jon when he spots them at the table. “Nice to see you fellas again,” Dallon says, tipping an imaginary hat in their direction. Ryan nods in Dallon’s direction and Jon shoots back a “Hey.”

Dallon nods and smiles before turning his attention to Brendon. “Brendon, this is for you. I finished it last night,” Dallon says. He offers the box out for Brendon to take. As far as Ryan can tell, the box is for a guitar pedal with a design burned into the wood on top and along the sides.

Brendon lights up. “Thanks, D! Let’s go put it in the music room.” He rests his hand on Dallon’s arm and leads him down the hall. Ryan doesn’t miss the scandalized look Spencer is throwing Brendon.

“Seems like a nice guy,” Jon says with a shrug.

Spencer nods, eyes glowing a little. “He is.”

Dallon and Brendon return to the table half a minute later, laughing again. Ryan still has no idea what they’re laughing about. They’re caught up in their own inside jokes. Dallon sits between Spencer and Brendon at the table, looking more and more like the missing piece to their puzzle.

“Well, now that Dallon’s here, we can tell you guys the news,” Spencer starts. The tension builds in the room, but Ryan and Jon nod all the same. “We’ve decided that Dallon is going to be playing live shows with us from now on,” Spencer says.

Dallon won’t look at them, his eyes focused on the shiny table top. Spencer’s mouth is a serious line, a far cry from the light, happy laughing that took place less than two hours ago. Brendon glances at Dallon, his face filling up with tension. Ryan looks at Jon. He’s surprised at how okay he feels about their announcement. Panic will always be a part of Ryan, but it’s a part that he can’t have back. It’s changed around him, evolved under his fingers, and Ryan couldn’t keep up even if had the energy or want to do so.

Jon looks to Ryan. They share a smile, one that’s soft around the edges. “Well, we wish you luck, then,” Ryan says. Jon nods alongside him. He can feel the moment when the tension breaks and dissolves, when Brendon’s whole body relaxes. Ryan’s good feelings about their decision are mostly due to Dallon being classified as a touring member of Panic and not a full member, but Ryan feels okay, like maybe the wound is closing, like knowing your ex is dating other people but still being happy for them.

A strange middle ground is created at Brendon’s place. There’s talking. They pile into Brendon’s living room and smoke up. Dallon doesn’t smoke, but Brendon sits next to him and needles him until he’s willing to take a hit from their bowl. Getting Brendon and Dallon high together is a bad idea. Brendon breaks out his laptop and the two of them watch video after video on YouTube. Dallon has his own collection of favorites and Brendon bounces excitedly, telling Ryan and Jon that they have to see the videos, too.

Ryan is a little surprised to see how well Dallon is fitting in with Brendon and Spencer already. Dallon fits well with Brendon in particular. It’s obvious that Dallon and Brendon share the same sense of humor. They gel together. Brendon leans against Dallon and giggles like an idiot, Spencer watching them with nothing short of fondness in his eyes. Ryan can see the space that Dallon is filling. He sees Dallon fitting with Brendon in a way that Ryan never had the tolerance to achieve.

It doesn’t hurt. Brendon has always been Ryan’s friend, but there were too many differences from the start, too much tension. Ryan sees that Dallon fits here. Spencer seems at ease, too, the worry gone from his face. Spencer doesn’t have to worry about Dallon in the same way he has to worry about Ryan. Spencer can relax, which is all Ryan’s wanted since the accident.

At some point – Ryan isn’t sure when because he’s warm next to Jon and comfortably high – Brendon and Dallon slip away from the group. Neither Jon nor Spencer seems to notice or pay much mind, so Ryan doesn’t, either.

“You okay?” Spencer asks. “About Dallon, I mean?” Ryan had been focused on the movie playing on Spencer’s TV, but he looks up at Spencer.

“Where’s Jon?” Ryan asks instead of answering Spencer. He’s only just noticing that Jon isn’t sitting on the couch with them anymore.

“Bathroom, I think … but really I don’t want you to be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” Ryan says. “I have new band members and now you do, too.”

Spencer watches Ryan for a moment. It looks like he has something he wants to say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his attention to the TV. When Jon returns to the living room, he looks surprised. Ryan arches an eyebrow, silently asking him what’s wrong. Jon plops down next to Ryan on the couch and tucks his arm around Ryan’s waist.

“Everything alright?” Ryan asks, tucking his head in against Jon’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Ryan is comfortable and warm tucked in under Jon’s arm. He, Spencer, and Jon split another bowl.

“Shouldn’t we get Brendon for this?” Jon asks. Spencer laughs and takes a hit.

“Nah, it’s his loss.”

Ryan laughs into Jon’s shoulder and closes his eyes. He hasn’t been doing half of the drug-related shit he used to do, so the weed plus the medication he’s taking makes his buzz that much more, makes Ryan soft and sleepy. He falls asleep on the couch, curled in with Jon.

The next time Ryan wakes up, he’s alone in the living room. He can feel a breeze rolling in from Brendon’s open doors. Voices drift in with the warm breeze. Ryan sits himself up and follows the sound. The closer to the door that Ryan gets, the better he can hear and he realizes with a start that one of the voices belongs to Spencer. The other isn’t Jon or Brendon, so that leaves Dallon.

Ryan peeks through the glass doors to the backyard. He sees Dallon and Spencer standing together. They’re facing the pool. To Ryan’s surprise, Spencer is leaning back against Dallon, Dallon’s arms wrapped around Spencer’s middle. It doesn’t look like the friendly sort of touching they’ve all done before … this looks intimate, like Ryan shouldn’t be seeing it.

“Do your friends like me?” Ryan hears Dallon say.

Spencer laughs. “Well, they’re still here, so that’s a good sign.”

Ryan hears Dallon hum. His palms are open over Spencer’s stomach, fingers brushing Spencer’s hips. He nuzzles the back of Spencer’s neck. Ryan didn’t think … he thought if this was going to happen, then it’d be Spencer and Brendon. “So I get the seal of approval, then. No one can resist the ol’ Weekes charm.”

Spencer snorts. “Keep talking like that and I won’t be quite as charmed anymore.”

Dallon hooks his chin over Spencer’s shoulder. Spencer turns his head. Dallon meets him halfway. Suddenly, they’re kissing. Ryan really shouldn’t be watching, but he sees their mouths slide together and there is nothing timid or unfamiliar about it.

Ryan hears other voices now – Jon and Brendon – and shuffles away from the door as fast as he can, heading back to the couch. Jon and Brendon emerge from the hallway, both of them holding boxes in their hands. “You’re awake,” Jon says. Ryan nods.

“What’s all that?” Ryan asks, pointing to the boxes.

“Oh, Brendon found some stuff. He thought we might want it.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. “Thanks, Brendon.”

Brendon grins and bounces in place. “Hey, no problem. Zack’s been pestering me for weeks to ask you guys about it.”

“They’ve got some business stuff to do, so I’m going to put this in the trunk and then we’re going to take off, okay?” Jon says. Ryan nods and waves him off. He’s still caught up in what’s happening outside with Spencer and Dallon. He wonders why Spencer didn’t tell him or if Spencer is even going to tell him now that he knows about Ryan and Jon.

While Jon and Brendon are gone, Dallon and Spencer return from outside. They’re good at hiding it. No one’s mouth is red or bitten and neither of them is disheveled. Ryan wouldn’t know if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. Spencer smiles and Dallon does, too. It’s weird to him how someone he doesn’t know much about at all has somehow climbed into such a high position with his best friend.

“You guys getting ready to go?” Spencer asks.

“Yeah, Jon said you guys had some business.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, nodding. “We’re gonna talk to some producers today.”

“I’m not going,” Dallon says. “In case, you know … you thought I was.” He trails off and scratches at the back of his neck. Spencer laughs at him and claps Dallon on the back, his hand lingering on Dallon’s shoulder blade just a beat too long.

Ryan nods uncertainly, thankful when Jon returns. Jon helps Ryan up from the couch. They gift Spencer and Brendon with careful hugs before they leave back for Ryan’s place. As soon as they leave, Ryan wants to tell Jon what he saw. He’s not sure if he should, but it’s not like Jon will say anything to anyone else.

“Hey,” Jon says before Ryan can decide whether or not to tell him. “Something weird happened today.”

“Yeah?” Ryan asks.

“When we were smoking up, I went to find Brendon to see if he and that Dallon guy wanted in on the bowl, and – ”Jon stalls for a moment.

“And what?”

“And I saw Brendon and Dallon making out,” Jon says with a shrug. “It was weird.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Pretty damn sure, Ryan. Brendon was all over him.”

Ryan doesn’t know what to think now. He rubs at his forehead. “That’s not possible,” Ryan says.

“Brendon being gay? Because that is really kinda very possible.”

“No, I saw – when you and Brendon were dicking around with those boxes; I saw Spencer and Dallon kissing.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“You don’t imagine something like that.”

“Well,” Jon says. “Well, what the fuck, then?”

“I don’t know! Do you think it’s possible that this Dallon guy is screwing around with both Brendon and Spencer and neither one of them know about the other?”

“How the hell would he manage that?” Jon asks, his forehead crinkling in thought.

“I’m telling Spencer what we saw,” Ryan says. He pats his side for his cell phone, but Jon reaches out to stop him.

“Wait! Maybe you shouldn’t. We shouldn’t get involved.”

“We should just let this guy cheat on them?”

“Let him fuck it up himself and get caught. It’s not really our business.”

Ryan wants to say that Spencer will always be his business, but maybe it isn’t. What if Spencer is the one in a relationship with Dallon and Dallon is cheating on him? What if Spencer is the cheatee? Ryan rests his head against his hand. He doesn’t know what to do. “Maybe you’re right,” Ryan says. 

***

Jon’s been texting Tom about the trip to Chicago. They have their plans set to stay with him. There’s not a lot left to do in L.A. There are no schedules to stick to besides Ryan’s group meeting. Jon has their suitcases packed by Monday. Ryan is both uneasy and happy that Jon is so excited. He wants to believe he’s happy to be home and see Tom and Andy and his cats, but there’s a small part of him that’s scared that Jon’s excited to see Cassie, too.

Ryan is also nervous about Chicago. He’s not sure how he’ll fit with Jon’s friends now. He’s always felt like an outsider around Jon’s life in Chicago, like he was a piece that wasn’t meant there, but now he’s going and staying with Tom – who is the Spencer to Jon’s Ryan … Tom, who knew Jon when he was with Cassie. Now he’ll see Ryan in this new way and with his best friend. Ryan’s never had a problem with Tom, but he still never wants to incur his wrath.

Jon and Ryan leave for Chicago early Thursday morning. Jon loads up the suitcases that he packed for the two of them and drives them down the always-busy streets of downtown L.A. Ryan is more nervous than he expected himself to be. He touches at the long, empty sleeve of his right arm, fiddling with the loose cuff where his right wrist should be. This trip will be his first time really being out in the world with his new body. He’s scared of the staring, of what people might say, and for the first time in a long time, he’s absolutely hoping that no one will recognize him.

Jon seems to sense his anxiety. At a stoplight, he reaches over and touches Ryan’s knee, rubbing his thumb into the joint there. He smiles. “You’ll feel better when we get there,” Jon says. Ryan knows he’s pinning a lot of hopes on this trip. Maybe he thinks being out of L.A. will make Ryan more accepting of his new life or at least calm him down. Ryan smiles to ease Jon’s mind, but a thread of panic is alive inside of Ryan, tangled around his ribcage, knotted.

When they arrive in the parking lot of the airport, Jon digs inside the messenger bag he’s brought with him and hands Ryan a pill, a water bottle in his other hand, ready for when Ryan needs a drink. Ryan takes his medicine and swallows down some water, his stomach and throat feeling full, like he might burst. People are milling around everywhere. Ryan never realized how distant he had become to the public; how the only places he ever seemed to go these days were hospitals or Brendon’s place.

“Are you ready?” Jon asks. “We won’t go until you’re ready.”

“What if I’m never ready and we miss our flight?” Ryan asks.

“Then we’ll book another when you are.”

Ryan shakes his head and messes with his hair. He can’t hide forever … he doesn’t want to. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Ryan says. Jon nods and slips from the car. Ryan follows behind him. Jon collects their luggage. His hands are full, so Ryan slips Jon’s messenger bag around his shoulder. A part of him is hoping that the bag will deflect some of the attention, maybe trick people into missing the asymmetrical build of his body.

The further into the sea of bustling people that Ryan and Jon walk, the calmer Ryan becomes. He forgot about being a face in a crowd, too many people rushing to catch their flight or arrive at their gate to be concerned with whether or not Ryan’s right side looks ‘normal’ to them. The actual plane ride might be different, but for now, things seem alright. Jon leads them to the front desk and picks up the tickets he’s had on hold. The woman at the desk gives them a once-over. Ryan is careful. He stands behind Jon so that half his body is covered, so that she couldn’t see even if she wanted to. Jon nods at the woman. She smiles at them as they head to their gate.

Jon checks in their luggage. They’re turning everything over except for the messenger bag, which has Ryan’s meds in it. Jon makes to take the bag from Ryan, but he shakes his head. “I’ll hold on to it,” Ryan says. “I can.”

“Okay, you hold on to it. How are you feeling?” Jon asks.

“I feel like everyone is looking at me.”

Jon glances around them. Ryan bites his lip. He’s being ridiculous. He’s far from the first amputee to ever travel or been seen. He’s not an oddity, but he’s been in enough situations to know that usually people stare if only for a second. They may look away to be politically correct or polite, but it’s human nature to be curious and people do stare. Jon’s gaze settles back on Ryan.

“No one is staring,” Jon tells him. “If they were staring, it’d be more likely due to the fact that I’m holding your hand more than anything else.”

Ryan smiles. “Do you want to hold my hand?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Jon says. He reaches out and takes Ryan’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together. If Ryan’s going to be stared at, he’d rather it happen because of something positive, because he’s with someone who makes him happy. With their hands locked, it’s impossible for Ryan to hide behind Jon as they walk. Fear bubbles in his chest, but Jon is smoothing his thumb along the back of Ryan’s hand as they walk to their gate. It’s enough to keep Ryan centered – this is something Ryan has to do.

Ryan can feel the weight of people’s glances on him as he and Jon wait for their flight to be boarded, but he can’t tell if people are staring because of his arm (or lack thereof) or because he and Jon are holding hands. Ryan really misses his other hand right now. He’d like to hold Jon’s hand and be able to fix the tie he’s wearing, or touch at the brim of the hat he has on.

Eventually, he does let go of Jon’s hand. Their palms are sweating. Ryan wipes his hand on his dress pants before he fixes his tie and touches his hat. He looks at Jon. “How do I look? Presentable for Lady Chicago?”

“You’re the best-looking guy in the terminal. Chicago will be lucky to have you,” Jon says. He leans in and touches at Ryan’s elbow. “I’m lucky to have you,” he adds, much quieter than before. Ryan flushes a little and laughs, straightening his already-straightened tie.

“That’s true. I’m quite the catch. Everyone is dying to date one-armed musicians, didn’t you know? It’s all the rage.”

“One arm or both arms, I wouldn’t let anyone else have you,” Jon says firmly.

Ryan’s chest warms. He believes Jon – he’ll always believe Jon. 

***

The flight is easier than Ryan’s imagined scenarios led him to believe. Shortly after he and Jon are seated, even before the plane takes off, Ryan dozes off. It’s a combination of his medication and the little amount of sleep he had had the night before. He settles his pillow against Jon’s shoulder and falls asleep.

The next time he wakes up, they’re in the sky, nearing Chicago. Jon is frowning at his phone.

“What’s wrong? Did a fan spot us at the airport? Have we been outed?” Ryan asks, still dazed from sleep.

Jon glances at Ryan before tapping out a response on his cell. “No,” he says. “No, I’m texting Tom.”

“You look upset. That’s not usually your default mode when it comes to Tom Conrad.”

“There was a family emergency in New York,” Jon says, smiling dryly at Ryan, “Something with Danielle. Tom is at the airport right now.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. He rubs at his eye with the palm of his hand. He can’t say he’s too disappointed. He’d like to see Tom, too, but maybe after everything is settled. “What do we do now?”

“Well, he said we could stay at his place. We’ve gotta go get the key from Ryan or Sean – Tom isn’t sure who has it.” Jon sounds exasperated, but fondly so. He’s more than used to Tom by now. Ryan knows that nothing he does surprises Jon anymore. “I’d been hoping to see him, though.”

Ryan feels bad for the little glimmer of relief he had at not seeing Tom. Jon wanted to see him. Jon misses him. “Maybe,” Ryan says around a yawn. “Maybe after Chicago, we can go to New York and impose on him there.”

Jon laughs and rests his head on top of Ryan’s pillowed one. “Maybe.” 

***

Prior to the trip to Chicago, Jon had promised Ryan good weather. Ryan was stupid enough to believe him. The instant they step into the O’Hare airport baggage claim, they’re greeted by thick, dark storm clouds and sheets of chilly rain.

“What happened to that warm Chicago spring?” Ryan asks as he peers out the windows of the airport at the constant downfall. He can’t even remember the last time it had rained in L.A.

“This sort of is a Chicago spring,” Jon says sheepishly. “Let me buy you an umbrella to make up for it.” Jon buys them an umbrella from the gift shop. It’s large and has the word Chicago on it in large, white lettering. “I feel like a tourist with this thing,” Jon balks. He’d called Sean sometime between landing in Chicago and buying the umbrella. Sean agreed to pick them up from the airport and give them the key to Tom’s apartment.

Jon and Ryan wait outside the airport with the umbrella open even though they’re standing under the metal awning of the airport, their luggage at their feet. Ryan shivers. “I’m sure the rain will let up soon,” Jon says unconvincingly. Ryan is sure he’s going to be living in hoodies for the next few days. Eventually, Jon spots Sean’s car chugging around the turn and heading for them. The closer Sean gets, the clearer Ryan can make out Empires’ Ryan sitting in the passenger-side seat.

“Gentlemen!” Ryan J says as he gets out of the car and takes Jon’s luggage before Jon can even protest. “I see Chicago pulled out all the stops in welcoming you back.” He laughs, rumbling and pleasant, and Ryan feels himself relax next to Jon.

“Feels like home,” Jon says with a laugh.

“Sean,” Luciani calls, pounding on the trunk of the car with his fist. “Open the trunk.”

“Sometimes it gets stuck!” Sean shouts through the hiss of rain. “Try it again.”

Luciani is getting soaked in the constant rain, but the trunk finally opens and he shoves Jon’s luggage inside. Jon doesn’t make him come back for the second piece of luggage. He takes it to the trunk himself, the rain pouring on him and making his t-shirt stick to his shoulders.

“You get in the car, Ryan,” Jon tells him. Ryan nods and adjusts the messenger bag on his shoulder as he opens the door closest to the curb. Ryan sits behind the passenger seat and listens to Jon slam the trunk before he goes to the other side to sit behind Sean. Raindrops cling to the tips of Jon’s hair, running down his face in small rivulets. Ryan reaches out and wipes away a few stray droplets from Jon’s cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“How long is the rain going to stick around for?” Ryan asks.

Sean smiles at Ryan in the rearview mirror. “Papers say all week.”

Ryan frowns at Jon. “You promised warm weather.”

“Chicago is an unpredictable beast. I can’t be blamed.”

“So you two are going to Tom’s, right? Ryan, give them the key,” Sean says as he pulls out of the airport’s parking lot. Ryan J laughs and pats his jeans pockets.

“I don’t have the key, Sean. Tom gave it to you.”

“No, he didn’t,” Sean says. He checks his jacket pockets at the next stoplight. Ryan glances at Jon. He’s not used to hanging out with the Chicago crew, but Jon doesn’t seem worried. “Oh, wait, I do have it. Here, Jon,” Sean says, tossing the key over his shoulder to Jon, who catches it in his hands.

“You two are going to die without Max around, aren’t you?”

“We made it this far, didn’t we?” Luciani says.

Jon laughs. Ryan does, too. He feels comfortable. No one is looking at him strangely and there’s no heavy weight of the unspoken topic in the car. Ryan figures it’s because Sean and Ryan J are just happy to see Jon – really, they’re just happy people in general. Ryan feels lighter, like the chains of people who do know too much about him have been lifted. He knows that Ryan J and Sean know, too, but it’s different. They’re not focused exclusively on him like most people in Ryan’s life are these days.

The ride to Tom’s apartment is comfortable. Ryan drinks in Jon, Luciani, and Sean’s conversation. They mostly talk about Empires, Sean and Ryan J babbling excitedly about their new songs and the tour they hope to go on soon. It’s nice. Ryan is honestly happy for them. When they get to Tom’s place, Sean parks his car outside the building and helps them get their luggage. Ryan steps out of the car and opens his umbrella before walking to where Jon is pulling out one of their suitcases. Ryan stands next to Jon so they’re both covered by the umbrella. The four of them press inside the lobby of Tom’s apartment building. Ryan can’t close the umbrella – the button and switch needed to close it are too far apart for him to operate one-handed. Sean and Jon don’t notice, but Luciani does. He smiles at Ryan before he asks, “Can I?” Ryan nods and relinquishes the umbrella to him.

Luciani closes the umbrella and then tucks it under his arm. “We Ryans have gotta look out for each other,” he says, motioning for Ryan to follow Jon into the rickety elevator. The four of them pile into the tight space of the elevator even though it seems like it’s not strong enough to support the four of them. The luggage is stacked between them, creating a small wall separating Jon and Ryan from Sean and the other Ryan. Ryan leans back against Jon, his back against Jon’s chest. He just wants to feel Jon there, sturdy and solid. Jon slides his hand under Ryan’s blazer and touches his hip. Ryan doesn’t need to look at Jon to know he’s smiling.

The elevator stops on the fourth floor and they pile out of the confined space. “I think we got it from here, guys,” Jon says when they reach Tom’s apartment. “We’re pretty beat. We’ll probably just catch some sleep for now.”

Sean nods. “Well, you should come hang out tomorrow –or, hell, tonight if you wake up in time!”

“Come by the studio,” Luciani says, rocking on his heel. It reminds Ryan of Brendon a little.

“Maybe,” Jon says. “I’ll give you guys a call.”

Ryan and Sean nod in unison. Sean catches Jon in a hug and, much to Ryan’s surprise, leans over and gives Ryan one, too. “See you dudes later,” Sean says, pointing his two index fingers at Jon and Ryan. Luciani waves to them. Jon laughs and unlocks the door.

“I hope you didn’t do that on my account,” Ryan says once Sean and the other Ryan depart.

Jon pockets the key and picks up the suitcases, one in each hand. “I didn’t sleep on the plane,” Jon says. “I figured we’d eat and just laze around, snooping through Tom’s shit until tomorrow. Maybe the rain will let up by then.”

Ryan shuffles into the apartment. It’s cold. Ryan suddenly remembers something about Tom’s apartment having shoddy heating most of the time. It smells like Tom, which isn’t a good or bad smell … just Tom. Jon abandons the suitcases in the middle of the living room.

“Did you pack a hoodie?” Ryan asks. He really hopes Jon did.

“You’re cold already?” Jon asks. “You wouldn’t last a minute in the winter.”

“That’s not an answer to my question,” Ryan says.

“I did.” Jon digs through his suitcase, disheveling a few shirts and boxers before finally pulling out a hoodie. He doesn’t hand it to Ryan; instead, he unzips it and goes to stand behind Ryan, draping it over Ryan’s shoulders, helping him put it on before he moves to the front again and zips it up for him.

“You’re much more romantic than I ever gave you credit for,” Ryan says. “I need to step up my game.”

Jon curls his hand around the side of Ryan’s neck, thumb rubbing behind his ear. “You have lots of time to catch up. For now let’s get some grub and then sleep it off.”

Ryan tucks his hand into the empty space of the pocket of Jon’s hoodie, reveling in the smell of Jon’s cologne and sweat that’s embedded in the fabric. He nods. “It sounds good.” 

***

It’s still raining when Jon and Ryan wake up at six in the morning. Ryan blames waking up so early on jetlag and time zones. Usually, he loves to sleep, and it’d be easy to keep sleeping with the warmth of Jon and Ryan tangled in the guest bedroom of Tom’s apartment. There was a note left on Tom’s pillow asking that, if Jon and Ryan fucked on the sheets, they wash them afterward, but neither of them were comfortable with the thought of making out in Tom’s bed, so they regulated to the guest room. The soft drizzling of the rain against the windows and the metal balcony also makes it easy to drift in and out of sleep.

Eventually, they decide to make out. Ryan is on his back, surrounded by sweet-smelling pillows (either the guest bed is rarely used or Tom launders the bedding frequently) with Jon on top of him, lying between Ryan’s spread legs. Everything is slow and warm and comfortably quiet. They’re not talking, just sharing kisses, passing them back and forth like promises or secrets. Jon’s arms are on either side of Ryan’s shoulders and his top half is leaning over Ryan, making Ryan arch from the pillows to catch his mouth.

Jon ruts lightly against Ryan’s thigh. Ryan spreads his legs farther, giving Jon more room to work with and hooking his leg around the back of Jon’s thigh. He groans softly when Jon bites carefully at his bottom lip before he licks over the skin to soothe the pain. Jon is hard. Ryan manages to get his hand between them, and he pets at Jon’s hip before wedging it between them, brushing his fingers teasingly over Jon’s hard cock. Jon is fully hard and breaks their kiss wetly to moan aloud into the silence of the apartment.

Ryan takes his hand from Jon to cup himself. He’s a little hard, though not fully. He grinds the heel of his palm against his cock, hoping that the same process from the shower will take effect here. Ryan’s fingers brush against Jon’s cock in the process. Jon holds his upper half against Ryan but he ruts against Ryan’s hand shamelessly.

“Ryan,” Jon groans. It’s the first word spoken between them in a huge stretches of minutes. “Fuck, I’m close. Can I just – can I keep going?” Jon asks. He looks down at Ryan with dark eyes. His voice is so deep, a rumble in his chest that vibrates out into Ryan’s, through his blood and straight to his cock, making it jerk under his hands. Jon bites his lip, his hips stilling like he thinks Ryan’s going to say no.

“You can. Yeah, just – hang on,” Ryan says. He draws his hand back, making Jon groan from the lack of touch. Ryan presses his hips up. He angles himself just right so that his cock brushes Jon’s when he presses upwards into Jon’s body.

“Fuck,” Jon moans. It’s been a long time for Jon, Ryan knows, since he’s had something besides his hand. It’s good like this – Ryan wants to be the one to make Jon come apart. He wants the privilege of watching what his imagination had built for him. Ryan steadily grows harder, a good sign, and he tries not to think about it too hard in case he worries himself right out of his hard-on.

Jon pushes down and rocks forward. Ryan gets both of his legs hooked around the back of Jon’s calves. They’re both wearing pants – Ryan in sweatpants and Jon in basketball shorts – and while it would be better if they were skin-to-skin, Jon is apparently too close right now to bother stripping either of them. With Ryan’s legs hooked over Jon’s, they move better, Jon grinding down harsh and fast, and – oh, oh, it’s better than Ryan thought it would be. Jon leans in to kiss at Ryan’s collarbone, scraping his teeth lightly over skin stretched across bone.

Ryan drinks the two of them in. He takes in the scene, the moment, like he’s looking up and watching them without being a part of it: Jon’s broad, muscled back curled over him, his head bent and mouth open, hair tickling Ryan’s chest, their hips grinding together. Ryan wonders what he looks like, curling in, arching up, head back in the pillows, mouth open. Ryan doesn’t think of his ailment, of the piece of him that’s missing … he can’t even see it in his mind’s eye. All he can see is Jon and how Ryan’s body is reacting favorably to him.

Every pass of Jon’s hard cock brushing over Ryan’s sends electricity through Ryan’s body, making his cock twitch and grow harder, begging for attention stronger than Jon’s own clothing-bound cock rubbing against it. Jon doesn’t seem to have this problem, though, and Ryan is drawn from his own pleasure by Jon crying out, his hips working furiously. Jon is essentially humping Ryan’s crotch and then he freezes, his hips twitching. Jon bites softly into Ryan’s shoulder as he comes in his shorts.

Jon rests his weight on top of Ryan, breathing harsh against Ryan’s throat. Jon kisses Ryan’s throat, lips ghosting over Ryan’s Adam’s apple. Every touch and kiss makes Ryan’s skin erupt in gooseflesh, shivers running through him. Jon raises his head.

“You’re hard,” Jon says. Ryan opens his eyes and looks at him, nodding. “I want to – ”Jon starts. “Can I get you off? I want to.” Jon’s voice is even deeper after he’s come, his mouth red. Ryan bites his lip.

“I’m not sure,” Ryan says. “What if it happens again?”

“We’ll deal with it.” Jon kisses Ryan’s chest, trailing his mouth down to lick over Ryan’s nipple, blowing cool air over it and watching it harden to a peak in response. Ryan gasps and shivers again. “I just want to make you feel good,” Jon says. He slides his mouth lower, letting his tongue trail down the soft give of Ryan’s stomach.

“Okay,” Ryan says. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the pillow. “Okay.”

Jon’s mouth meets the waistband of Ryan’s sweatpants. He glances up at Ryan before he reaches out and slowly peels back the fabric. Ryan lifts his hips so that Jon can roll them down, tugging them off and throwing them haphazardly over his shoulder. Jon rests his hands on Ryan’s ankles, smoothing his hands up Ryan’s thin legs, his fingers dancing over Ryan’s skin. Jon touches Ryan’s thighs, fingers tickling so lightly that Ryan almost feels like he’s imagining it. His skin is lit for Jon, erupting with gooseflesh under Jon’s fingers. He shivers in anticipation.

He’s a little scared that he’ll lose his hard-on if Jon doesn’t speed up the process, but when Jon looks at him with dark eyes and a filthy smirk, Ryan is sure he’ll be fine. Jon doesn’t touch Ryan’s cock, though. His hands go to Ryan’s hips, cupping them, his thumbs pressing against bone. Jon’s mouth goes back to Ryan’s stomach. He nuzzles Ryan’s stomach and kisses around his belly button. Ryan shivers, but he doesn’t move. He wants Jon to explore him to his fill. He wishes he could do the same.

Jon’s hands spread Ryan’s thighs wider apart, his hands cupping Ryan’s inner thighs. He dips his head and noses at the skin there before kissing Ryan’s thigh. It’s just a light brush of lips, but Ryan whimpers lightly. Jon’s thumb brushes the heavy weight of Ryan’s balls before he cups them in his hand, rolling them gently. Ryan can barely breathe. His cock is aching now. He’s harder than he ever was in the shower, harder than he’s been in months.

Ryan grabs for Jon’s shoulder. He doesn’t want look away or miss one second, one touch; he doesn’t want to miss anything. His hand flies to Jon’s shoulder because he feels like he needs to be grounded and he wants to feel Jon, too. “Jon!” Ryan chokes out. Jon looks at him through his lashes, smiling lightly. Jon doesn’t wait to hear if Ryan has anything to say before he leans in and drops a kiss on the tip of Ryan’s dick. His tongue flickers out over the slit. Ryan hisses, his fingers digging into the fine muscle of Jon’s shoulder. It seems Jon is content to take it slow and draw out Ryan’s pleasure now that he has Ryan’s body cooperating with him.

Jon licks around the head of Ryan’s cock with careful, long strokes of his tongue. He pulls back and spits in his palm, curling his hand around Ryan’s dick to wet the shaft. Ryan groans, his hips arching up a little. He tries to bend forward and catch Jon’s mouth in a kiss. Jon leans forward, his hand still on Ryan’s dick, and they meet in a kiss, their teeth clacking. He settles back on the bed and lets Jon squeeze the base of his dick before he closes his mouth around the head.

It seems Jon’s patience has passed. He works fast, swallowing sloppily around Ryan’s dick. He still can’t take much of Ryan, but Ryan can’t tear his eyes away anyway. He can’t stop watching the way Jon’s mouth is stretched already – he barely has any of Ryan down. Jon’s eyes flick to Ryan’s face. Ryan groans at the raw heat in Jon’s eyes. He’s embarrassed to make noises, his sounds too loud in the stillness of the room. Jon swallows and hums around Ryan’s cock, the head of his dick bumping the back of Jon’s throat. A moan is torn from Ryan’s chest and Jon groans in response, sounding pleased that he drew that sort of reaction from Ryan.

Ryan’s hand shifts to cup the side of Jon’s neck. He can feel the tendons shift under his fingers when he presses his thumb into the hollow of Jon’s throat. He can feel Jon swallow. Ryan pants loud and noisy. Jon slips lower. Ryan doesn’t expect him to take it all – he doesn’t know if Jon’s ever even blown someone before – and he’s sloppy, making obscenely wet noises around his cock. It’s a beautiful thing to see: Jon with his mouth full of Ryan. Jon’s lips are stretched red and swollen. He jerks Ryan off where his mouth can’t reach. Ryan moves his hand and sets it atop Jon’s head, fingers curling in Jon’s hair, still a little too short.

Ryan doesn’t force Jon to take him down all the way. He just holds on to Jon’s hair, wanting to feel that much more connected to Jon. Jon pulls off Ryan’s cock to catch his breath, but he doesn’t stay off for long. He kisses Ryan’s cock, nosing down his shaft and setting his mouth against Ryan’s balls, licking at them gently. Ryan moans with less shame now, too caught up in how good it feels to have Jon sucking at his balls, rolling them in his mouth. Jon’s facial hair scrapes him but doesn’t hurt; it only makes it feel that much more amazing. Ryan arches against the mattress, his fingers tightening in Jon’s hair. With the way Ryan’s hips press up, his cock bumps Jon’s face, brushing wetly against his cheek and leaving behind a sticky trail of pre-come and spit.

Jon goes back to Ryan’s dick, valiantly sucking Ryan down again farther than he had before. Jon gags, but Ryan moans, so Jon doesn’t pull off. He just pulls back so that Ryan’s cock is no longer brushing his throat. Ryan’s missed this. He’s missed feeling loved, he’s missed this physical connection with another person, and he almost wants to cry with how much he feels alive in this moment. With his cock in Jon's mouth, he feels more like himself for the first time since the accident.

Ryan’s close to the edge, his body shivering with a built-up release that’s been a long time coming. He wants Jon to make him come. He wants Jon to pull his orgasm from him. He wants nothing more in his life than to lie in bed with Jon and trade off sexual favors. Jon sucks harshly, breathing heavily out of his nose and sucking hard at Ryan’s cock as if he knows that Ryan is close. “Jon,” Ryan chokes out. “Jon, I’m going to – ” he tries to warn Jon. Jon still doesn’t pull off. He stays with his mouth wrapped around Ryan’s dick. Ryan holds on as he shakes apart, pressing his hips up to meet Jon’s mouth. He comes so hard that the whole world whites out around him; nothing matters except for him and Jon and their pleasure.

Jon releases his dick and presses his nose to Ryan’s thigh, kissing the soft skin there. Ryan releases Jon’s hair, carding his fingers through Jon’s soft locks to fix the mussed strands. Ryan lies there in the guest bed, dazed, slowly coming back to himself. Jon’s still mouthing at Ryan’s thigh, sending little aftershocks of pleasure through him. Jon kisses Ryan’s rapidly softening cock. Ryan groans. He can feel Jon’s smile against his skin. Jon keeps moving upwards, his mouth trailing up Ryan’s stomach and his chest, ghosting over Ryan’s nipples until Jon is settled over Ryan.

Jon smiles lazily, his mouth swollen and red, and kisses Ryan. He carefully opens his mouth under Jon’s. He can taste himself bitter on Jon’s tongue, but he doesn’t mind. He’s too warm and sated to mind much of anything right now. Ryan and Jon are pressed skin to skin. Ryan’s eyes grow heavy. Jon just watches him, kissing Ryan’s cheeks and mouth.

“I’m glad we got to do this,” Jon whispers into Ryan’s hair. His voice is so much rougher than Ryan’s ever heard it. He tingles happily that it was his cock that caused it. Ryan nods and pets his hand limply down Jon’s damp back.

“We should always do it,” Ryan says. “You can feel free to blow me any time you want.” Ryan is happy that there’s nothing wrong with he and Jon as a duo.

Ryan falls back to sleep after Jon goes to take a shower. He dozes, lazy and sated and happier than he’s felt in a long time now. He’s almost afraid to feel this content, like he isn’t allowed to get too comfortable before someone will decide to shake up his life again. Ryan wakes up when Jon comes back, still damp from his shower, his skin warm. He touches Ryan’s shoulders gently.

“Hey, you wanna take a shower while I scrounge up some grub?” Ryan sighs and stretches. He sort of wants to stay in Tom’s guest bed all day. “The rain makes you lazy,” Jon teases as he dips in to press a sweet kiss to Ryan’s cheek, fingers wiping away the dampness left behind by his mouth.

Ryan sits up and pushes a hand through his hair as Jon finishes dressing. The living room/kitchen of Tom’s apartment is old, drafty with the rain. Ryan hurries through the area to the little bathroom. The bathroom is still warm from Jon, steam fogging up the mirror. The shower is just a cylinder with shelves built in for shampoo and bars of soap to rest on. Ryan doesn’t have to worry about slipping as he gets in. Tom only has the tiny bottles of shampoo that you collect from hotels. Ryan can work those one-handed.

He showers and feels good, clean and new, like he’s shed a shell he didn’t know he was wearing. When Ryan comes back through the chilly kitchen, Jon is standing there with a to-go bag in his hands from what looks like a diner and his cell phone to his ear. Ryan goes to get dressed. He catches snippets of Jon’s conversation.

“Okay, a half-hour? Yes. Yeah, I’ll be there by then.”

Ryan frowns and tugs on his t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He can hear Jon ending the phone call and then the rustling of the bag that Jon was holding before he appears in the doorway. “Hey, I got us some breakfast,” Jon says.

“Okay. Who were you talking to?” Ryan asks as he scrubs his towel over his head. He tries for casual, but he’s not so sure he succeeds. He has a feeling he knows who Jon was talking to on the phone. Jon looks to the floor and scratches at his arm.

“Cassie,” Jon says. “I told her I wanted to come get Dylan and Clover.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. He doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t want to talk about her. It’s not that Ryan doesn’t like her. He’s always thought Cassie was a nice person, but it’s too awkward now. What is he supposed to say about the girl that the person he’s with used to date?

“She asked if she could keep Marley,” Jon says. “He makes her feel safer living on her own.”

“Oh,” Ryan says again. Jon sounds sad and instantly tired. Ryan wants to collapse into him, but he also doesn’t want to touch him, not if he’s thinking about someone else.

“Do you want to go with me?” Jon asks.

“To get your pets?”

Jon nods. “Yeah, I understand if you don’t or if you want to just hang out here until I get back, but – ” Jon trails off. He still sounds sad. Ryan steps forward and walks to Jon. Jon reaches out automatically to touch at Ryan’s hip where his t-shirt has ridden up.

“She’s not going to want to see me,” Ryan says.

“You don’t have to go inside,” Jon says. “But I’d feel better knowing you were there.” In this moment, Jon needs Ryan. He’s so used to it being the other way around that he’s surprised. After all of the things Jon has done for him, Ryan won’t turn him down.

“I’ll go,” Ryan says. “Moral support or whatever. I’ll go.”

Jon is touching both of his hips now, hands spread open against his skin. Jon kisses Ryan and then presses his mouth to Ryan’s ear, whispering, “Thank you.” 

***

Jon is nervous the whole way to his old place. It makes sense. It’s Jon’s neighborhood and Jon’s home. Cassie was almost Jon’s wife, but now none of it is his. He has to travel hours in an airplane to even see his pets. Ryan never realized how much Jon’s life changed, just as much as Ryan’s own has changed. Ryan’s only been to Jon’s home a handful of times so he doesn’t recognize when Jon gets closer, turning off into a back trail that leads to the driveway.

There’s a “for sale” sign in the mound of earth next to the driveway. Ryan raises an eyebrow. “For sale?”

“Yeah,” Jon says. “Neither of us wants it. She’s just staying here until someone buys it.”

Ryan plays with the seatbelt over his chest. They’re driving Tom’s car. Ryan is a little uncomfortable, but Chicago traffic is a little less insane than L.A. traffic. Ryan has to push his faith into Jon and remember that Jon will keep him safe. They stop in the driveway up near Jon’s old house. Jon’s car is parked out in the driveway. Ryan doesn’t ask about it. Jon stares at his old home like he’s afraid to go inside. Ryan touches his knee in the same way Jon does to him whenever he’s scared.

Jon looks up and smiles at Ryan. Fear taints his smile, sadness draping his face. “You’ll be okay,” Ryan says – he’s not asking, he’s telling. He knows Jon will be okay. Jon nods before leaning over and giving Ryan a quick kiss.

“I’ll be back,” he says. Ryan nods. He watches Jon get out of the car, tucking his cell phone into the back pocket of his jeans. Jon walks to the front door, stiff and uncomfortable. He knocks – it must be weird for him to be knocking on his own door. The door opens, but Ryan doesn’t see her. Jon slips inside. Ryan grows worried and bored almost instantly. What if seeing Cassie sparks something inside of Jon? What if he wants to be here again? Ryan feels stupid sitting out in the car while God-knows-what happens inside.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by his phone vibrating in his pocket. It’s Spencer – Ryan forgot he was supposed to call Spencer when they landed in Chicago. He quickly answers the phone before Spencer starts assuming he’s died or Jon’s lost him.

“Hey, Spence,” Ryan says.

“How’s Chicago?”

“Rainy. How’s L.A?”

“Seventy-five degrees and gorgeous,” Spencer says. Ryan can hear the smirk in his voice. Talking to Spencer jogs the events of the days leading up to their departure to Chicago, the last dinner they had together … what Ryan and Jon both saw Dallon doing. Should he say something? Now would be the perfect time. He really should. If Spencer saw Jon doing something, he’d want Spencer to tell him.

“Hey, Spence, uh – ”Ryan begins, clearing his throat and unbuckling his seatbelt to get more comfortable.

“Yeah?” Spencer prompts when the silence drags on too long.

“At that lunch on Thursday before Jon and I left … I saw something a little surprising.”

“Yeah?” Spencer says again, his voice sounding more strained than before.

“Yeah. I saw you and that Dallon guy outside in Brendon’s backyard. I saw you guys kissing.” There’s a still silence. Ryan is half-sure that Spencer hung up the phone. “Spence?”

“I’m here. I just … it’s not that strange, is it?”

“A little. How well do you even know him?”

“Oh, right, because you’ve been best friends with everyone you’ve ever kissed?” Spencer snaps.

“Hey, look, that’s not what I thought was strange! It was … look, Spence, I don’t know if you’re dating Dallon or whatever, but you have to know that I think he’s cheating on you if you are.”

“Cheating on me? What?” Spencer doesn’t sound mad. He sounds confused. Ryan thinks he should be mad. Maybe he shouldn’t be telling Spencer after all. It’s too late to take back what he said, though, so he barrels on.

“Jon saw Dallon kissing Brendon that same night. He’s, like … he’s fucking around with the both of you.”

“Oh,” Spencer says. Again, he doesn’t sound upset.

“I don’t think that’s the right word for when your new bandmate is cheating on you,” Ryan says. He watches Jon’s house and doesn’t picture anything that he shouldn’t be picturing happening inside. Jon’s just visiting Marley, they’re just trying to catch the cats, and he’s just telling her that he’s alright in L.A.

Spencer laughs an honest-to-God laugh. Ryan pulls away from the phone to make sure he’s still connected to the right person. “I guess it’s time we told you. I’m dating Dallon, yeah, but I’m also dating Brendon.”

“What?” Ryan says. It’s all he can say.

“We’re kind of all dating each other,” Spencer explains. “So it’s okay if Brendon kisses Dallon because they’re together and they’re both with me, too. I know it’s weird, but – ”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“You want the nitty-gritty details?” Spencer asks, clearly amused.

“I want to know how my best friend managed to be in a relationship with two people and nobody noticed.”

“I was with Brendon first,” Spencer says. “After the split and while you were in the hospital, it just happened. I’d been waiting for it to happen. As for Dallon … he just – we like him and he likes us. It’s easy. It all fell into place, you know?”

Ryan does know. It sounds like what happened with him and Jon, but Spencer’s was easier. It’s weird to think that both of his old friends are dating this new person, but they’re happy. If they can make it work, then it doesn’t bother Ryan.

“Ryan?” Spencer asks.

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m … I’m happy for you.”

“I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t notice how obviously in love Dallon and Brendon are. He’s shit at being subtle.”

“Yeah, well, you suck at being quiet when you’re hooking up with your secret boyfriend.”

Spencer laughs. “Well, you just suck in general. I have to go, Ryan, but be safe, alright? I’ll call you later.” Ryan nods before he realizes that Spencer can’t see him.

“Okay, Spence. I’ll talk to you later.”

They hang up. Ryan fiddles with his phone. It’s been ten minutes since Jon went inside his home. Ryan doesn’t think Jon’s the type to leave Ryan out in the car as he hooks back up with his ex-girlfriend, but you never know. He feels stuck out here in the car. He won’t go inside and he won’t text Jon, so he’ll sit and wait for Jon to come back.

Finally, as though Ryan summoned him with his mind, Jon steps outside the door with two cat carriers in his hands. The front door shuts behind him as Jon walks with his cats to the car. He doesn’t look happy or unhappy. His mouth is moving – the closer he comes to the car, Ryan realizes that Jon is talking to his cats, probably comforting them as he jostles them about in the rain.

Jon comes to the car and sets one of the carriers down on the driveway as he opens the back door. As soon as Jon opens it the door Ryan can hear the pitiful meows of Jon’s cats. He sets one of the carriers in the backseat and then picks up the other from the ground. He puts that one in the car, as well.

“They hate the rain,” Jon says when he’s back in the car, rain-dampened himself. His eyes looked pained, tired. Ryan wants to kiss him until he smiles again. “They also hate traveling.”

“They’ll get used to it,” Ryan says as he turns to look back at the cats huddled in their carriers, tiny faces and glowing eyes peering at Ryan with mistrust. “You saw Marley?”

“Yeah,” Jon says. His voice is tight. “Yeah, he missed me. He jumped on me right away. I hated leaving him behind.”

Ryan feels bad, like it’s his fault that Jon is so sad, that Jon has to give up a house and his pet and his Chicago friends. Ryan looks out the window and bites his lip when Jon’s cats start to mewl.

“Hey,” Jon says softly, reaching out to touch at the back of Ryan’s head. “Hey, don’t blame yourself. I chose this. I chose you.”

“You could have everything you wanted if it weren’t for me,” Ryan says. He won’t look at Jon. Jon’s hand doesn’t leave his hair.

“I do have what I want. I have you,” Jon says. Ryan turns to look at him, lip between his teeth. “I’m happy. Some situations are going to be sad, but I’m happy with you. I don’t regret it.”

“Okay,” Ryan says, relaxing. Jon’s hand falls away and he starts the car back up to take off. Jon’s cats cry in the backseat. Jon talks to them. “Clovergirl, Dylan, you guys are okay,” Jon coos at them. Ryan should find it ridiculous, but he doesn’t. He finds it charming.

“Jon, get this,” Ryan starts once they’re driving back to Tom’s place. “Spencer called while you were inside.”

Jon’s eyes widen. “Don’t tell me you told him what we saw.”

“Yeah, I did, but – ”

“Ryan, you really shouldn’t have. He was pissed, right?” Jon asks.

“No. In fact, he laughed.”

“He …laughed?”

“Yeah, I guess they’re in a polyamorous relationship or whatever. All three of them are dating.”

“I feel like we should have guessed that before jumping to the cheating conclusion,” Jon says with a laugh. Ryan laughs, too. It’s still raining when they get back to Tom’s apartment. The cats are still upset, and Ryan holds the door open for Jon so he never has to set one of them down. He feels a little like a new parent bringing home their kids from the hospital for the first time. He hopes Jon’s cats like him.

Jon sets the carriers in the middle of the living room and opens them up before sinking to his knees in front of the cages, coaxing his cats out of their carriers. Dylan comes out first, rubbing his head on Jon’s hand and then peering around the living room like he knows this place isn’t his home. Clover won’t come out of her carrier even after Jon’s little “Come on, Clover.”

Ryan goes and pulls on Jon’s hoodie before sitting on the couch while Jon tries in vain to win over Clover.

“She’s stubborn,” Ryan says. Jon laughs and nods.

“She probably hates me right now.”

Dylan, though, seems to have warmed up to the place and to Ryan without Ryan doing much of anything. Dylan saunters to the couch and decides that Ryan’s lap is where he wants to lay, plopping his warm, furry body across Ryan’s lap. Ryan pets him, running his fingers over Dylan’s ears and under his chin. Jon watches from the floor, grinning, and eventually gives up on forcing Clover to come out. Instead, he goes to sit with Ryan on the couch. Dylan takes note and slinks from Ryan’s lap to Jon’s. 

***

It’s still raining when Ryan wakes up on their third day in Chicago. Jon isn’t in bed, but Ryan does feel a warm, if furry, body sidled up to his ribcage. Ryan wakes up and looks down at Dylan, who’s lying next to Ryan’s side in the space where Ryan’s right arm would be, his head nuzzling against Ryan’s stump. Dylan had been attached to Ryan since they got back to Tom’s place, and though Clover eventually did come out of the carrier, she wants little to nothing to do with Ryan or Tom’s apartment. She spends most of her time hiding under tables or the bathroom or circling around Jon’s ankles.

Ryan reaches over to pet Dylan’s head, his fingers clumsy with sleep. He smells coffee and laughs softly when Dylan licks at Ryan’s fingertips. He stretches in the guest bed and listens for the sound of Jon padding around the wood floors of the apartment. Ryan doesn’t go searching for Jon; instead, he waits until he hears the sound of footsteps approaching the guest room. The smell of coffee is stronger than ever.

“Dylan has taken a shine to you,” Jon says. Ryan looks up at Jon and smiles lazily. “You should get up. I called Andy and he wants to see us.”

Ryan hums. He’s excited to see Andy, but he’s scared, too. Andy was Jon’s friend growing up and he’s the one who brought Andy into the Young Veins, but he and Ryan grew close over tour and Andy was the second person to be hurt the worst in the crash, having to be confined to a wheelchair and crutches. What if Andy is angry at Ryan? Angry at Jon? What if he blames them?

Ryan gets up anyway. Dylan rolls into the empty spot Ryan left behind, yawning and stretching. Ryan goes to Jon and greets him with a kiss, Jon’s mouth tasting like coffee. “Does it ever stop raining in Chicago?” Ryan asks sleepily.

“The news said tomorrow is supposed to be sunny,” Jon says. Ryan smiles against Jon’s mouth. He feels like he could fall back to sleep again. “Go get some coffee,” Jon tells him.

An hour later, they’re on the road to Andy’s apartment. It’s still raining, so Jon and Ryan stand under their umbrella outside of Andy’s apartment while they wait for him to buzz them up. When they do get upstairs, the door is open and Andy is waiting for them in his wheelchair.

“This rain is shit, isn’t it? I bet L.A. is a lot nicer,” Andy says with a smile. Jon laughs while Ryan smiles uncomfortably. He’s not sure why he’s uncomfortable – maybe because the two of them are hurt, both so obviously injured that they mirror each other. Andy can’t use his left leg and Ryan is obviously unable to use his right arm. Jon closes the door behind them and sets the umbrella in the rack by the door before stooping down to hug Andy.

“Too hot,” Jon tells Andy. Andy pats Jon on the back before Jon pulls away.

Andy focuses on Ryan. “It’s good to see you up and around,” he says.

“Same for you,” Ryan says before he regrets his choice of words. Andy isn’t exactly up and moving. He laughs, though. Ryan hasn’t seen Andy since before the crash. He wasn’t conscious when Andy made the decision to be transferred to a Chicago-area hospital to heal up – the same decision Jon had turned down, instead staying in the L.A. hospital to be closer to Ryan – and he was already gone by the time Ryan did wake up and realize everything that had happened. “I mean, I’m glad to see you’re doing so well.”

“Yeah. Physical therapy is a bitch, but I don’t have to tell you that.” Andy rolls his hair back, maneuvering easily. “You guys want something to drink? I got beers in the fridge.”

“I can’t drink anymore,” Ryan says.

“I got some weed if you’d rather smoke up?” Andy asks with a grin. Ryan is surprised at his demeanor. He expected Andy to be hardened and angry, but he’s happy and dealing with his shit. Of course, Ryan doesn’t know what Andy acts like every other day, but he’s glad Andy is happy.

The three of them sit in Andy’s tiny living room while Andy digs around a wooden box he has sitting under the coffee table. “My girlfriend hates that I leave this out here,” Andy says with a laugh as he sets the box with his paraphernalia on his lap. Andy rolls up a joint with familiar speed and they take turns passing it around.

“You guys realize that our album is coming out in like two weeks?” Andy asks around his hit. He exhales carefully and leans forward to pass the joint to Jon. Ryan freezes up next to Jon. Shit. Shit, no, he hadn’t remembered that at all. The tour they were on was the tour to promote their upcoming album. The plan was to tour again a month or so after the album was out. After the accident and Jon and traveling to Chicago, though, the schedule had slipped his mind. Their album is coming out soon – the label decided not to move the date – and they’re not even a band anymore. It’s laughable, really, and it pisses Ryan off. He wasn’t done. He didn’t even get to play all the songs on the album live for a crowd.

“Uh,” Jon starts. “No, we did forget. I – wow, already, huh?” Jon sounds more awed than upset.

“I thought maybe the label would still want us to do press or something, but I haven’t heard anything,” Andy says. He seems calm about it, probably because he didn’t record the album. It’s not his work on it, so it doesn’t hurt as much, or maybe he’s just made peace with the world and the situation. Ryan hasn’t, though. “I mean, they’d probably ask you two first, but they haven’t, have they?”

“Hey, let’s talk about something else,” Jon suggest, sparing a glance at Ryan, who won’t look up from the joint burning down in his fingers. He takes a hit as Andy seems to catch what Jon is saying.

“Oh! Oh, right, yeah.” Ryan leans forward to pass the joint to Andy. He won’t meet Andy’s eyes. “Hey, Ryan, I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject. I just – ”

“It’s cool,” Ryan says quickly, trying to close the subject. The room grows silent, and from inside Andy’s apartment, you can’t even hear the rain. Ryan scratches at his throat, uncomfortable. He forgot about the album and now soon the spotlight will be turned back on his band, on the accident, and he’ll be in focus again. They’ll talk about what happened to him and how he dropped off the face of the earth. Ryan doesn’t want that. He’s never minded attention, even negative attention, but he just wants to fade for now. He wants to be forgotten. He doesn’t want the Young Veins to be ‘the band that got in that accident’ and he doesn’t want to be the lead singer who lost an arm. He wanted the music to speak for itself.

Jon changes the subject, but Ryan’s too caught up in his own head to pay attention. He’s scared of the impending eye turned on them. He hates that he’s scared. He should be happy about the album’s release, that at least they have an album to show what they accomplished together, but Ryan doesn’t want phone calls asking for interviews and he doesn’t want to release a statement. Fuck, at this point, he doesn’t even want to know what the fans are going to say about the album.

The more they smoke, the more Ryan, at least for the moment, is able to forget his anger. Jon talks with Andy about how his life has been since the accident. Andy’s just been living here with his girlfriend, who’s been helping him with his therapy and doing computer work on the side. Andy’s fallen back into his old life with no troubles. Ryan sort of envies that. His old life is impossible to return to. He feels like someone hit the fast forward button and now he’s twenty-three, starting all over again.

The whole conversation leaves him feeling tired despite getting more than enough sleep back at Tom’s place. Jon notices and nudges Ryan’s shoulder with his own, Ryan leans into Jon’s touch. It’s nothing, but at the same time, it’s everything. “I think we’re gonna take off, Andy,” Jon says. “Ryan gets kind of out of it after he takes his meds.” It’s a lie because Ryan hasn’t taken his meds yet today and he feels fine, but he really wants to get out of Andy’s apartment, so he’s grateful for Jon’s lie.

“Okay,” Andy says carefully. Ryan doesn’t think he knows they’re lying, but he thinks that Andy knows he said the wrong thing. It was bound to happen sooner or later. It’s better that they were reminded of it a few weeks prior to the release date. “You guys should stop in before you leave the city,” Andy tells them as Jon gives him a hug. Jon nods.

“You bet we will.”

Ryan also hugs Andy despite their minor conflict. He’s still glad Andy’s alive and here. 

***

“You okay?” Jon asks on the way to Tom’s place.

Ryan shrugs. “It pisses me off that we finished before we even really started. We were on hiatus before the album even got out.”

Jon remains silent, but he nods. Ryan sighs irritably.

“I’ll field any press if they want us to do some. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, if you’re not ready yet,” Jon says. Ryan knows Jon doesn’t like press shit either. Ryan presses the heel of his hand to each of his eyes, working away the headache that’s sprouting there.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do anything,” Ryan says. “Let it pass by without a word. You could tweet about it, maybe, but no official stuff? Fuck, I don’t know, Jon.” Ryan chews on his lip and rests his head against the back of his seat.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. We’ll take it as it comes. We’ll figure out what to do when it gets here.”

Ryan nods and keeps his eyes closed the rest of the ride, his stomach tight and rolling with stress.

***

Back at Tom’s apartment, Ryan’s just waking up from a nap (Jon thought taking one would help him relax and put him in a better mood). He stumbles out into the living room to find Jon lying on Tom’s beaten-up couch, Dylan and Clover spooning above his head. Ryan sleepily pads over to Jon, who may or may not be asleep, and lowers himself down on top of him, his body spreading farther than Jon’s does.

Ryan rests his head on Jon’s chest, ear to Jon’s heart. He listens to the steady beat, tapping his fingertips against Jon’s bicep, following the rhythm. Jon shifts under Ryan and his hand moves to the back of Ryan’s stump, stroking over his tattoo again. Ryan wriggles on top of Jon until he can barely reach Jon before he kisses Jon’s slack mouth. He kisses him again when Jon doesn’t respond right away.

“You’re feeling better,” Jon says once he opens his eyes. Above them, the cats stretch and yawn and blink in Ryan’s direction. Ryan sets his head back on Jon’s chest.

“Yeah, I do.”

Jon moves his hands to rest on Ryan’s lower back, hands dipping into the back of Ryan’s sweatpants, petting at the skin there. Ryan slides his mouth down to kiss at Jon’s jaw as Jon’s hands creep lower to rest outside of Ryan’s boxers, cupping his ass. Ryan’s body tingles pleasantly as Jon’s hands knead his ass. His hips roll down to brush Jon’s.

“You want to go to the bedroom?” Jon asks. Ryan nods against Jon’s neck.

Ryan scoots off of the couch and offers his hand to Jon, curling his fingers tight around Jon’s hand to help pull him up. Jon tugs him in, bringing him close and kissing him, pressing up on his toes to get a better shot at Ryan’s mouth. Jon is more familiar with the layout of Tom’s apartment, so he sets his hands at Ryan’s waist and guides them to the guest room.

They collapse – Jon on his back and Ryan on top of him, elbow digging into the mattress. Ryan likes being on top, looking down at Jon, whose cheeks and neck are flushed. Ryan kisses Jon, dipping in to brush their mouths together. He wants to touch at Jon’s body, but he can’t with his hand planted in the mattress. Ryan shifts and sits above Jon’s knees, hand touching the hem of Jon’s shirt.

“You should take this off,” Ryan says. He fingers the material of Jon’s shirt. Jon nods and sits up long enough to strip his own shirt. Ryan hates that, too – he can’t undress Jon the way he wishes he could. He can’t drink in Jon’s skin with his hands. He’s limited even in this. Jon’s shirtless, though, and Ryan lets his mouth drift down the line of Jon’s chest, tongue flickering over hardened nipples. Ryan’s hand smoothes over as much tanned, finely-muscled skin as it can.

“Let me take your shirt off,” Jon says from beneath Ryan. He nods his approval and raises his arm so that Jon can pull his t-shirt up and off. Jon smoothes both of his palms up Ryan’s chest, fingers dancing across his skin, and rubbing over his nipples. Ryan shivers and rocks his hips forward. He’s starting to get hard again.

Ryan’s hand drifts to Jon’s jeans. His fingers struggle with the button, but he doesn’t ask for help. It takes longer than it normally would, but Ryan pops the button and gets down the zipper before he lets his hand dip inside of Jon’s jeans. He touches Jon’s cock, feeling him getting hard. He watches Jon while he touches his dick. Jon gasps and rolls his hips against Ryan’s hand. Ryan takes his hand away. Jon groans because of the loss. Ryan dips his hands into the fold of Jon’s jeans, trying to tug them down his thighs. He wants more skin.

He can’t do it on his own, though, so Jon takes the hint. Ryan backs up to sit on the bed between Jon’s spread legs so that Jon can kick off his own jeans. “Boxers?” Jon asks. Ryan nods. Jon gets those down, too, and now he’s naked, his body spread out in front of Ryan.

Ryan touches Jon’s ankle and then slides further up, claiming tiny inches of skin, feeling Jon like this for the first time. It doesn’t feel like enough – he wants all of Jon. He wants both of his hands touching Jon, exploring him, and it hurts deep inside of him to know without a doubt that he’ll never have that now.

“I wish,” Ryan starts once he’s settled on top of Jon, sitting above his knees but below his rapidly hardening dick. “I wish I could’ve learnt your body with both my hands. I wish I could’ve memorized you with both palms. I wish I hadn’t waited so long to feel you, Jon.” Ryan touches Jon’s hip, swirling his fingers against skin that’s paler than the rest of him.

Jon sits himself up, his cock brushing Ryan’s jean-covered thigh. Jon hisses. His hands cup the back of Ryan’s shoulders, bending him forward so that he can kiss Ryan, snaking his tongue inside of Ryan’s mouth. “I love you,” Jon says. It’s the first time he’s ever said it to Ryan. It’s the first time Ryan’s truly felt it in regards to Jon. “I love you just like this.” He takes Ryan’s wrist and brings Ryan’s hand to his mouth, kissing the center of his palm.

“I love you, too,” Ryan says quickly, flushing and drawing his hand back from Jon’s mouth. “And you should take my pants off.”

“Yeah?” Jon asks. Ryan nods and Jon grins. “I can do that.”

Jon strips Ryan of his pants and pulls Ryan back down to him so that they’re both naked, skin meeting skin. Ryan isn’t fully hard, but Jon brings his hand between them to touch at Ryan’s dick, his palm dry but nice. Ryan’s breath hitches pleasantly, his hips rocking against Jon’s hand as Jon strokes him.

Jon touches him carefully, thumb rubbing under the head of his dick.

“Am I?” Ryan starts. He feels turned on, but he doesn’t know if it’s translating.

“Not yet,” Jon says. He kisses Ryan’s neck. “Come on,” he says. “Get hard for me.”

“I want to,” Ryan says. “I want to so badly.”

Jon’s still stroking him. “Does it feel good? I could blow you like before.”

“Yeah, it’s good. I just – I don’t know. When I got hard before, I wasn’t thinking of myself. I was thinking of you and the way you looked on top of me. I can’t think of myself. I – I don’t like how I look,” Ryan admits. He’d been mulling over why Jon’s second blowjob worked as opposed to the first and this is the answer he presented himself.

Jon’s hand stills on his cock. He looks into Ryan’s eyes. “That’s the problem? You’re thinking of your own body?”

Ryan nods and tips his head against Jon’s shoulder, shifting so that the two of them are impossibly close, their naked cocks brushing together, Jon’s hand caught somewhere in the middle. “I wonder how you can even touch me with how I look: too thin, missing an arm, ruined, ugly.”

Jon’s hands find Ryan’s face. He pulls Ryan’s head up so their eyes meet. “You are beautiful. You don’t need to wonder why I’m here. I’m here because I love every inch of you, every scar and flaw and imperfection. I want to be with you.” Jon kisses Ryan sweetly, “Okay?” he asks. Ryan nods, helpless and close to crying with how much he loves Jon.

“Okay,” he says. Jon’s hand drifts back between them. Ryan focuses on how Jon looks as he jerks Ryan’s cock, getting him hard. Ryan focuses on the slick head of Jon’s cock brushing his stomach as they move together. Slowly but surely, Ryan grows hard. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop. Soon, he’s panting in Jon’s ear, surprising himself when he says, “I want you to fuck me.”

Jon nods and catches Ryan’s mouth in a kiss before he props himself up against the headboard. Ryan shifts until he’s in Jon’s lap, his knees on either side of Jon’s warm thighs. He’s nervous. He’s never been fucked, but he can’t think of a better person to experience it with than Jon. “You never?” Jon asks, mirroring the thoughts that are going through Ryan’s head. Ryan shakes his head. “I never.”

“Okay,” Jon says. “I’ll be careful.” Jon reaches away from Ryan to the little nightstand next to the bed. Jon digs around a little and Ryan quirks an eyebrow when Jon returns with lube and condoms in his hand. “I wanted to be prepared just in case,” Jon says sheepishly.

“Good idea.” Ryan laughs. He calms down a little. It’s just Jon. It’s just the two of them here and Jon will take care of him like he always does. Jon pops the cap of the lube and wets two of his fingers. Ryan shifts on his knees and presses his ass back a little. Jon kisses Ryan as he lowers his hand, his two fingers rubbing slick over Ryan’s hole. Ryan groans into Jon’s mouth and Jon keeps kissing him as he presses one inside. Ryan’s never been fucked in the ass by anyone, but he has experimented before. Z was big on ass play and she has fingered him a few times in the past, enough times that the pain isn’t brand new. Jon’s fingers are different from Z’s, though: wider, thicker, rougher. He feels the stretch more with just two of Jon’s fingers than he ever did with three of Z’s.

Ryan grunts, breaking the kiss to set his forehead against Jon’s shoulder. “Are you alright?” Jon asks, his fingers stilling inside of Ryan. “I’m okay. I’m good. Just don’t stop, okay? Keep going.” Jon kisses the side of Ryan’s head before his fingers begin moving inside of him. It’s a little uncomfortable, but Jon blindly hits Ryan’s good spots, the spots that make him press back for more and rocking his hips forward against Jon.

Jon gets a third finger inside of Ryan. Ryan pants against Jon’s skin. Jon stretches Ryan out slow and careful, his slick fingers pressing in and opening Ryan up. The pain fades enough that Ryan feels like he needs more, like he’s ready to have Jon inside of him.

“Jon, I think you should. I want you to fuck me now,” Ryan says. Jon’s fingers still work inside of Ryan, slow and teasing; the way it feels is driving Ryan up the wall. He lifts his head to meet Jon’s eyes.

“Are you sure?” Jon asks.

“Yes – ” he groans when Jon crooks his finger and brushes Ryan’s prostate. “Yes, god, I’m ready.”

“Fuck, fuck, okay. As long as you’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Jon. I’m so sure.” Ryan presses back, fucking himself on Jon’s fingers to prove his point. Jon swears under his breath and nods. Slowly, he draws his fingers out of Ryan. He laments the loss and feels suddenly so empty that he’s dying to be full again. He touches his damp fingers on Ryan’s thighs before he opens the condom. Ryan wants to put the condom on Jon, but as it is, he can’t even open the package on his own. Jon goes for the lube again and wets his hand once more before he wraps his fingers around himself, slicking his condom-covered shaft.

“You want to do it like this?” Jon asks, his voice tight as he strokes himself.

“Yeah, yeah, like this,” Ryan says. He lets Jon touch him and arrange him so the head of his cock is brushing against Ryan’s hole. Ryan shivers and presses back, Jon’s cock slipping against Ryan’s ass, rubbing between his cheeks. Jon gets a hold of himself and watches Ryan’s face as Ryan slowly begins to press down. In this position, he’ll have most of the control. Not that Ryan thinks that Jon wouldn’t stop if he asked him to, but it’s nice to know he controls how much he takes, how fast he moves.

Jon’s cock isn’t huge, but it is thick and hurts worse than Jon’s fingers had. Ryan sinks down inch by inch, and Jon kisses his throat and neck, comforting Ryan until Jon is fully seated inside of him. “Shit, Ryan, shit, you feel amazing,” Jon mutters. Ryan pulls in mouthfuls of air, trying to catch his breath and get used to Jon inside of him. He feels so full that it already feels like too much, but he wants Jon, wants to feel Jon moving inside of him.

Jon starts moving first, little presses of his hips rolling up that make his cock inch in and out of Ryan. On Ryan’s end, he shifts a little, rocking back and forth. Jon’s cock is barely fucking into him, but it’s already good. Ryan bites his lip and spreads his knees. Ryan hooks his arm around Jon’s neck as the two of them build up a slow rhythm. Ryan pulls up off of Jon’s cock, though not all the way; the head of Jon’s dick is still inside of Ryan. Jon’s hands move to Ryan’s hips, holding on tight. Jon doesn’t control Ryan’s movements, but he helps Ryan sink back down on to Jon’s dick.

“Oh, god,” Ryan moans, pressing his face against Jon’s neck. He rides Jon slowly, moving so slow that he can feel every inch of Jon entering him. Jon fucks up into Ryan from underneath him, moving his hips up in small jerks. He does it when his cock is buried completely inside of Ryan, when they can’t get any closer, and then he presses up. His dick brushes against Ryan’s prostate and it’s even better than before with Jon’s fingers.

Ryan tangles his fingers into the hair at the nape of Jon’s neck. He’s thankful that Jon’s hair is still long enough to do that. They’re rocking together in a slow rhythm. Ryan holds on to Jon and Jon to Ryan and they move together like they’ve become one person. They’re quiet together, not a lot of noise besides their grunts and groans and the slick sound of Jon’s cock fucking into Ryan.

Their faces are only inches apart. Jon watches Ryan’s every reaction, making sure he’s still comfortable, that he still enjoys it. It should be embarrassing watching Jon watch him while they fuck, but it’s not. He can’t stop watching the little lines of tension on Jon’s face when he works his hips up and Ryan squeezes himself around Jon’s cock. He moves to kiss Jon messily, their teeth clicking. Their kissing quickly dissolves into panting into each other’s mouths.

Ryan feels so good, so full and complete. Ryan is completely open for Jon now; there isn’t a single part of him anymore that Jon hasn’t seen or touched or laid witness to. He’s happy that they can do this together, that they can fuck, that Ryan can trust Jon with doing this. Ryan’s not the type to get all mushy during sex, but even if he doesn’t tell Jon right now, he feels it. He buries his face in Jon’s neck and mouths the words against Jon’s skin.

Ryan wants it to last forever, but what they’re doing is definitely new to him, and he feels his orgasm not too far off. He reaches between them and squeezes at his cock, realizing with a start just how close he is despite his dick not getting more action than brushing against Jon’s stomach. Ryan squeezes the base of his cock, trying to stave off his orgasm.

Jon nuzzles his throat. “You’re close?” he asks. Jon’s voice has that beautiful, deep edge to it. Ryan groans and nods. “I am.”

“Okay,” Jon says. “Come for me, Ryan, come for me.”

Jon knocks Ryan’s hand away and curls his own around Ryan’s shaft, squeezing and jerking him off more frantic than they had fucked. Ryan is panting, body hunched. He rides Jon a little faster, his hips bucking to push into the tight circle of Jon’s hand. Jon is grunting. He’s still fucking Ryan while he jerks him off. He kisses behind Ryan’s ear as everything slams into Ryan all at once, stringing him out and exploding inside of him like bombs. He comes hard with a raw cry over Jon’s chest and stomach, over Jon’s fingers.

Ryan slumps against Jon, panting. Jon releases Ryan’s dick and holds Ryan’s hips as he fucks into him. It’s quick, but Ryan doesn’t mind. It doesn’t hurt. Ryan wants to watch him, to see Jon’s face as he grows closer to the edge, but he can’t move, worn from his orgasm. His head is on Jon’s shoulder, so he listens instead. He feels when Jon buries himself inside of Ryan and grunts deep and gorgeous, more gorgeous than any grunt should ever sound, and comes.

They lie together like collapsed dolls, catching their breaths. Jon wraps his arms around Ryan, turning them and sliding out of him. Ryan whines from the loss. He doesn’t mean to, but he’s still strung out from his orgasm. Jon cuddles Ryan and kisses him. Jon curls around Ryan, spooning him. “You meant it?” Ryan mutters before he drifts off. All traces of anger from earlier that day have vanished from him. He feels nothing but sated, warm, and loved.

“Meant what?” Jon murmurs against Ryan’s shoulder.

“That you love me. That you think I’m beautiful. You meant that?”

Jon’s arms squeeze around Ryan. “Of course I meant it. I’ll always mean it. I love you, Ryan.”

Ryan takes Jon’s hand in his hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing Jon’s fingers. “I love you, too.” 

***

 

The next day, Ryan is sore – the best kind of sore he’s ever been, better than being sore from living through an accident or losing your arm. He likes being sore from having Jon inside of him.

Today, it isn’t raining, which shocks Ryan. He kind of misses the constant hiss that he’s come to associate with Chicago. Jon and Ryan go to Max’s studio to visit Sean and the other Ryan. Despite the absence of rain, the sidewalks are still stained wet and filled with puddles. Ryan has to watch where he’s going so that he doesn’t ruin his shoes. He and Jon hold hands as they walk up the street to the makeshift studio where Max and Empires work. Jon smiles at Ryan and holds the door open for him after he knocks on it, signaling to Sean and Ryan that they’ve arrived. Ryan slips in through the door and goes down the narrow, small set of stairs to the basement. Luciani is sitting on the couch and Sean is sitting in a recliner next to the couch, a guitar in his lap. It’s refreshing to be around other musicians, to be around music in general.

“Hey, you made it!” Sean says. “And it’s not raining. Must be a sign of a good day.”

“And not just Chicago being unpredictable,” Luciani says with a laugh.

“Anyway, come and sit. You guys want to hear some demos?” Sean asks. After spending enough time with Empires, he’s come to know that Sean is passionate about music, almost obsessively so. Ryan sits down at the end of the couch and Jon sits down next to Luciani.

“Fuck, yeah! Tom won’t stop raving about the shit you guys are doing,” Jon says. Sean and Ryan J both laugh.

“Sounds just like him.”

Sean goes to the computer and clicks around on a few things until a song starts playing. It’s brash at first, lots of heavy guitars and drums, and it takes a while for Sean’s voice to start but once it does its powerful, intense and Ryan is impressed. Empires may not be his style exactly but he enjoys the music they make and he’s more than happy to listen to them make it.

The four of them sit around and listen to a few demos. Sean dips and bobs and Ryan J pats his hand against his thigh to the drumline of the songs. “These are rough, don’t forget,” Sean says when a few pitches screw up. He smiles sheepishly at them.

“They’re amazing,” Ryan says. Sean practically lights up with pride.

“Yeah, well, Jon sent us some of the stuff that he’s working on, and that’s pretty amazing, too,” Sean says. He grins at Jon. Silence takes the room, swift and stifling. Ryan looks at Jon with an arched eyebrow.

“Our … the Young Veins demos?” Ryan asks, looking back at Sean.

“No, the stuff he did recently. His stuff,” Sean explains. Ryan looks back to Jon again.

“What stuff?” Ryan asks Jon, confused. Jon glances at Ryan and then looks past him to Sean.

“I didn’t tell him yet, Sean,” Jon stresses, his gaze slowly shifting back to Ryan.

“What stuff?” Ryan asks again as the tension in the room builds.

“I’ve been,” Jon sighs and rubs his hand over his face. “I’ve been recording some solo stuff.”

The words feel like a punch to the gut, a twist to his heart, like his arm is burning. Ryan is taken aback. He doesn’t know what to say. Jon’s been recording music on his own. He did it without telling Ryan. He shared it with Sean and Tom before he shared it with Ryan. The pain is quick and intense, festering in his chest.

“Oh,” Ryan says.

“Ryan, I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t get around to it yet. It’s not – ”Jon trails off. Ryan waits for him to keep going, but he doesn’t. Ryan stands.

“I’m going to go get some air,” Ryan tells the room at large.

“Ryan, hey, don’t – ”Jon starts. Ryan doesn’t wait around to hear what he has to say before he heads upstairs and through the door. Ryan stands outside, leaning back against the building next to the studio. He feels like shit. He thought Jon knew what he was going through, that Jon understood the pain of not creating music anymore, but Jon’s been making music right under Ryan’s nose. The morning Ryan found Jon with the acoustic and GarageBand opened in the guest bedroom – he must’ve fallen asleep recording a song.

The door to the studio opens. Ryan doesn’t look to see who it is – he knows it’s Jon. “Ryan,” Jon says. “Okay, that was really unfortunate timing, but I was going to tell you.”

“When?” Ryan asks. “When your fucking solo album was finished?” Jon puts his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and turns Ryan around. Ryan shrugs off Jon’s hand and takes a step back. “I thought we were in this together!” Ryan snaps. “But you were making your own music. You barely let our old band die before you started something all on your own.”

“I was going to tell you when we got home.”

“When we got to L.A.,” Ryan corrects. “My home. This is your home.”

Jon frowns. “Ryan, I really was going to tell you. It’s not even a full album. It’s a few songs.”

“Oh, that makes it all better. I bet your guilt about the solo album is what made you want to take care of me,” Ryan says. “You wanted to take care of me because you felt bad and falling in love with me was just a nice bonus – or did you just fucking want to get laid?”

Jon looks wounded. Ryan feels smug in that aspect, at least. He wants Jon to feel as bad as he does right now. “You don’t really think that, do you?” Jon asks, hurt apparent in his voice. “I love you. I’m sorry this was sprung on you.”

“You should’ve told me!” Ryan shouts, his voice echoing around the street.

“I didn’t want to hurt you!” Jon shouts right back. “You had just gotten out of the hospital and I didn’t want to start off with that. Do you want to know what happened?” Jon asks.

Ryan sets his jaw tight. “Yeah,” he spits.

“I wrote the first song while you were in the hospital. I thought – fuck, Ryan, at the time, we didn’t know if you were going to live or not. I was scared every fucking day. I was terrified that you’d die and I’d lose you. I wrote the song because it’s all I could do, Ryan. After we knew you’d be okay, I kept the song. I wanted to keep it as a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

“Of how I almost lost you.”

“Are they all about me?” Ryan asks with less venom than before.

“Not all of them. Some of them are about Cassie and what happened with her. I know that I have no right to tell you how hard it was dealing with shit in my life because it’s a million times harder for you, but it was hard and I had to do something. I was hoping that eventually you’d become healed enough that I could tell you about the songs, that you’d want to hear them.”

Ryan looks down at his shoes. He’s standing in a puddle, but he doesn’t care. His anger is dissipating from him, like water evaporating in the midday sun. It’s hard to be mad at Jon when he understands him, when he remembers coming home after school and writing out every problem he had as a teenager, creating song after song. Even if he never intended on doing anything with the songs, he still needed them to exist.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says again. He steps up to Ryan, closing his arms around him. Jon’s fingers are warm through the button-up Ryan is wearing, his palm touching the small of his back. “I hated keeping it from you.”

“When we get home,” Ryan begins, he looks at Jon. “I want to hear it. The one about me.”

Jon’s hand tangles in Ryan’s hair and he touches the back of Ryan’s neck, stroking a finger down his skin. It’s a reminder of last night, which couldn’t feel more different than today. He’s mad at Jon, but Jon is also the same person who just had sex with him the night before, and it’s too hard having both of those images of Jon conflicting in his head.

“Okay. Just so you know, no one else has heard the one about you.”

“Good,” Ryan says. He leans into Jon’s touch.

“Sean’s sorry, too,” Jon says. He tucks his face into Ryan’s neck, rocking the two of them back and forth slowly. “He didn’t mean to upset you. He didn’t know.”

“I’d better go and tell him I’m not mad at him,” Ryan says into Jon’s shoulder. He lets himself be rocked. He feels weak after their argument, knees shaking. It’s strange to still be mad at Jon but also love him more than he’s ever loved anyone else in his life. 

***

Ryan smoothes things over with Sean, assuring him that he’s not mad and that the whole thing was just unfortunate. When they’re good with each other, Jon and Ryan grab dinner and go back to Tom’s place to eat and then fall asleep with the cats. They’re going to be leaving Chicago the next afternoon. Jon goes down the street to wash Tom’s sheets while Ryan halfheartedly packs their suitcases up, Dylan following Ryan from one room to the next.

“Jon will be back soon,” Ryan tells Dylan as he kneels on the floor next to the suitcases, folding t-shirts and pants and setting them inside. Ryan can’t fold very well, but he doesn’t think Jon will mind. Dylan butts his head against Ryan’s hand and meows at him like he’s saying ‘I know that.’

That night, Jon, Ryan, and the cats are all asleep in the guest bedroom. Dylan curls against Ryan’s stomach and Clover wants to creep as close to Jon’s head as physically possible. It’s comfortable and warm and there’s only one word that Ryan can use to describe it.

Home. 

***

It rains the day they leave Chicago. The city gave them only one reprieve from the constant storming, but Ryan isn’t angry. He feels a little like Chicago is sending him off in the fashion Ryan is accustomed to. Sean and Ryan drive them to the airport, hugging the two of them tight. Sean manages to squeak in one more apology before they head to their gate.

The cats are handed off to a worker at the airport and they check their luggage in. Jon and Ryan are quieter now, having come off their first fight as a couple – if a couple is what they can even be called. “We’re a couple, right?” Ryan asks Jon as they wait for their plane to start boarding.

Jon smiles at him. “I’d say so, yeah. Do you want to be a couple with me?”

Ryan looks at his and Jon’s joined hands. “Yeah, yeah, I do. We’re a couple.”

“You’re my boyfriend,” Jon says with a laugh. “You’re my first boyfriend.”

Ryan bumps his shoulder with Jon’s. “You’re my first boyfriend.”

“I do love you,” Jon says with an odd seriousness. “Don’t ever question that.”

“I love you, too. I mean it.”

This time, Jon sleeps on the flight, his head pillowed on Ryan’s shoulder while Ryan taps out text messages to Spencer.

***

L.A. is sunny and brilliant, a far cry from the gray, drizzling skies of Chicago.

“Welcome home,” Ryan tells Dylan and Clover as they load them into the backseat of Ryan’s car. Jon doesn’t seem sad. They’re alright. Ryan feels better being home. He wonders if this is how Jon feels when he’s in Chicago. If that’s the case, then he’s willing to make the trip back and forth every now and then.

Back at Ryan’s place, the two of them let the cats out for the first time. Clover refuses to come out of her carrier and Dylan keeps close to Jon and Ryan, sniffing the carpets and the couch hesitantly.

When they’re all settled, their suitcases still packed and resting in Ryan’s bedroom (Jon’s long since stopped sleeping in the guest bedroom), Ryan takes Jon’s hand. “I want to hear the song,” he tells Jon. He’s actually looking forward to it now that he’s had time to think about it. Ryan was always the one writing songs for the people he loved, never the other way around. He wants to hear Jon’s feelings set to music. Jon laces their fingers together and leads them to the guest bedroom. Ryan sits on the bed amongst his guitars while Jon loads up the laptop and GarageBand. He clicks a few things and then, slowly, a song starts playing.

The song opens with an acoustic; three seconds in, Jon starts singing, his voice open and honest. Ryan squeezes Jon’s hand as he listens. The song is about death and what happens after, as far as Ryan can tell, but it’s nice. The chorus is what he likes the most. Jon is singing a lullaby in a strange way, coaxing his subject to sleep, easing them into a painless dream. When the song is over, Ryan’s heart is aching. The song sounds like what would happen if Ryan had died in the accident, but its hopeful, too – hopeful because Ryan didn’t die.

Jon is tense as they listen. When the song is done, he looks at Ryan expectantly. “What did you think?”

“What’s it called?” Ryan asks.

“I’ve been calling it ‘Lullaby,’” Jon admits almost sheepishly.

“I love it,” Ryan says. He does. Jon wrote him a song. Jon wrote him a lullaby. Jon loves him. His chest feels so full he thinks his heart might explode.

“You do? Honest?” Jon asks.

Ryan nods and settles himself closer to Jon. “I really do. Were you thinking of making a solo album?” The subject is a little uncomfortable, but Ryan wants to know. Jon looks stricken, like his real answer will upset Ryan. He strokes his thumb against Jon’s hand.

“I considered it. I just wanted to do these songs, ‘Lullaby’ in particular.”

“I think you should do it. Not for a while, I mean, but you should record it,” Ryan says.

Jon looks surprised. “You think so?”

Ryan releases his hand from Jon’s and touches Jon’s face, opening his palm against Jon’s stubble-rough jaw. “I absolutely do, Jon. I want you to.” He can’t make music or play instruments, but Jon can, and he wants Jon to be able to. Who knows? Maybe when Ryan is ready, he and Jon can make an album of their own together. For now, though, he wants Jon to do this.

Jon leans in and kisses Ryan. “Listen,” Jon starts. “I’ve been doing some research and I think I’ve figured out a way for you to play the guitar.”

“How?” Ryan asks. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he wants to know what Jon has to say. Ryan’s heart is beating fast with the anticipation of the answer.

“We do it together,” Jon says. “You play the strings and I pluck the neck.”

“You think that would work?” Ryan asks. His hopes are still creeping high. It might not be him playing alone, but it’s him creating music – that’s reason enough to let his hopes soar. Jon nods and slips from the bed, picking up the acoustic leaning against the wall. Jon brings it back to the bed and sits down next to Ryan, their knees bumping. Jon adjusts the acoustic until the curve of it is resting against Ryan’s knee, the neck turned to face Jon.

Ryan can barely breathe from excitement. His fingers settle across the strings. Jon brings his right hand to the neck, his fingers curled over the strings there. “Play,” Jon tells Ryan quietly. It used to be the simplest thing in the world to ask of Ryan, but now it’s something special, something that Ryan prays will feel like it used to. Ryan’s fingers move over the strings, plucking them. The sharp sound echoes out. Jon moves his fingers at the neck of the guitar. It takes half a minute or so before they meet up and play something resembling a tune.

Ryan’s body is bursting with happiness and excitement. He’s not playing alone, but it’s enough. Something so simple has Ryan almost in tears. “See?” Jon says. “See, we can do it like this. We can play together.”

Ryan nods. He sobs embarrassingly loud and dry, his fingers stopping over the strings. He curls over the guitar and cries. Jon lets him, rubbing his back. 

***

That night, Jon whispers to Ryan something he says he’s been waiting to tell him. “I want you to play ‘Lullaby’ with me on the album.”

“What? Are you – you want to record it?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, eyes glowing in the near-darkness of Ryan’s room. “I want us to play that one together, like earlier.” Ryan is quiet. Jon kisses his cheek, nosing the shell of his ear. “Will you do it?”

“Yes,” Ryan says. “Yes, I will.”

***

It takes a few days for Ryan to learn the song. In that time, he sits with Jon in the guest bedroom and listens to Jon record the other songs he’s written. “You must be the only person in the world with a song about his beard,” Ryan says, laughing at the printed-out lyrics sitting on the bed.

“Your jealousy of my facial hair is palpable,” Jon says. He strokes his bearded chin. Ryan listens to Jon record three songs – one about his beard, one about the Panic split, and one about Cassie. When Ryan is ready, they sit together on the bed, guitar settled between them. Ryan is nervous, more nervous than he thinks he’s ever been regarding music, rivaling the time he and Brendon played in Spencer’s grandma’s garage for Pete Wentz. Jon turns on the recorder and then he and Ryan begin the song.

Ryan swallows. His fingers move over the strings in time with Jon’s. They’re good at working together, moving seamlessly. Jon starts singing. Ryan has to concentrate harder to stay focused on his notes. They don’t get it in the first take. Jon messes up, so they do it again. The next time, Ryan messes up. Jon kisses the side of Ryan’s head and says, “It’s okay. Calm down.”

Ryan nods shakily and he and Jon start again. The fourth time, they nail it. Jon flips off the recorder before he sets down the guitar and wraps Ryan in a hug. “You were amazing,” Jon says, catching Ryan’s mouth in a kiss. “You’re so amazing.”

“You’re going to give me a big head,” Ryan jokes.

“You had one when I met you,” Jon teases, kissing Ryan again. They lay on the guest bed. “Imagine when the solo album comes out,” Jon says. “Your name will be right there with mine in the credits, right where it belongs.”

Ryan pushes his hand through Jon’s hair. He’s happy, honestly happy. He sort of never thought he would be happy again, but he is. He knows things won’t be perfect, that all of his problems can’t be solved just because he’s in a relationship now, but things will be easier. It’s easier to live when you have someone to live for. Jon introduced music back to him, love back to him. In a way, Jon brought him back to life. He feels like a different person yet again: a full person, happy and in love.


End file.
